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Li 



THE CHOICE WORKS 



or 



THOMAS HOOD, 



In ?3roge anli Uerse, 



INCLUDIN'i THX 



CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS. 




WITH LtTE OP THS AUTHOR, PORTRAIT, AND OVEB 
Tiro HUNDRED JLLUSTRATJONS. 



NEW YORK 
JOHN WURTELE LOVELL, PUBLISHER 

14 & 16 AsTOR Place 



6^ 






CONTENTS. 



MsMon 



rAG* 
ix 



EARLY ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 



Ode to Dr Kitchener • • • 
To Hope . . • • . 
The Cook's Oracle • • • 
To Celia 

Presentiment .... 

Mr Martin's Pictures and the 

Bonassus ..... 19 
The Two Swans . . . .21 



PACB 
I 

2 

4 
14 
IS 



Ode on a Distant Prospect of 

Clapham Academy . . .27 
Address to Mr Cross, of Exeter 

Change 3<» 

Elegy on David Laing, Esq. . 33 

Stanzas to Tom Woodgate . . 35 
A Sentimental Journey from Isling- 
ton to Waterloo Bridge . . 38 



ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 



Ode to Mr Graham, the Aeronaut 

A Friendly Epistle to Mrs Fry, 
in Newgate .... 

Ode to R. Martin, Esq., M.P. . 

Ode to the Great Unknown . . 

Ode ;o Joseph Grimaldi, Senior . 

Ab Address to the Steam- Wash- 
ing Company .... 



49 

55 
60 
62 



72 



Letter of Remonstrance from 
Bridget Jones .... 

Ode to Captain Parry . . 

Address to Maria Darlington, on 
her Return to the Stage . . 

Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D. 

Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq. 



74 
77 



84 
89 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES— (First Series, 1826). 



Moral Reflections on the Cross of 

St Paul's . 
Tlic Prayse of Ignorance 
A Valentine . . 

Love .... 
" Please to ring the Belle* 
A Receipt — for Civilisation 
On the Popular Cupid . 
The Last Man . . 





The Ballad of " Sally Brown and 




91 


Ben the Carpenter " . 


112 


93 


Backing the Favourite . 


"5 


95 


A Complaint against Greatness 


116 


97 


The Mermaid of Margate 


118 


98 


My Son, Sir 


122 


99 


" As it fell upon a Day " . 


123 


104 


A Fairy Tale . . . 


124 


105 


The Spoiled Child , « 


. 123 



The Fa?I of the Deer . 

r^cceniber and May . 
A Winter No-e^My 

I'.questrian Courisliip . 
" She is far from tlie Land' 

Fancies on a Teacup . 

1 he Stag-Eyed Lady . 

Walton Redivivus . 



CONTENTS. 




FACE 




PACI 


. 129 


" Love me, Ic ve my Dog " 


. 147 


. 131 


Renionstratnry Ode 


. 150 


• 131 


A New Liff-Prescrver . 


. 154 


. 133 


A Dream . . . , 


. 156 


. 134 


The Irish Schoolmaster 


. 161 


• «37 


The Sea-Spell 


. 169 


. 139 


Faithless Nelly Gray . 


. 174 


. 143 


Fancy Portraits . , , 


. 176 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES— (Second Scries, 1827). 



rreface . 






180 


Itimca's Dream , 






182 


A Ballad-Singer . 






190 


Mary's Ghost 






191 


The Progress of Art 






193 


A School for Adults 






196 


A Legend of Navarre 






200 


Tiie Demon Sliip . 






206 


Sally Holt, and the Death 


of John 




Hayloft . 


. 




20S 


A True Story 


. 




211 


The Decline of Mrs Shakerly 


216 


Tim Turpin . 


. 


. 


218 


'1 he Monkey Martyr 


. 


. 


222 


r.andiiii 


• 


. 


225 


Death's Ramble . 


. 


• • 


227 



Craniology . 

An Affair of Honour 

A Parthian Glance 

A Sailor's Apology for 

" Nothing but Hearts" 

Jack Hall . 

The We« Man . 

Pythagorean Fancies 

" Don't you smell Fire? 

The Volunteer 

A Marriage Procession 

The Widow . , 

A Mad Dog . . 

John Trot . , 

An Absentee . 

Ode to the Camehpard 



Bow 



The Pi.ea of the Midsummer Fairies 
Hkro and Leander .... 
Lycus tmk Ckntaur .... 
The Two Peacocks of Bedfont . 



let's 



. 27S 
• 307 
. 329 
. 3i8 



MINOR POEMS. 



A Retrospective Review 


. 344 


The Sea of Death. • 


. .356 


Pair Ines 


. . 34^' 


Ballad .... 


. . 357 


Tin- Diparture of 


Summer 


. .348 


I icm'.mbcr, I remember 


. .35S 


Song lor Music 


. 


■ . 35' 


Ballad .... 


• 359 


Ode : Autumn . 






. 351 


The Water Lady . , 


. 36c 


Lalia.l . 






. 353 


The i:xile . . . , 


. 36c 


Hymn to the Sun 






. 354 


To an Absentee . . , 


. 361 


To a Cold Beauty 






. 354 


Song .... 


.361 


Autumn 






. 355 


Ode to the Moon . 


.3(>' 


Ruth . 






. ^S^ 


To . . . . 


. 36J 



CONTENTS. 



«9 



The Forsaken • • • • 

Autumn . . • • • 
Ode to Melancholy . . 
Sonnet on Mrs Nicely, a Pattern 

for Housekeepers . . . 

Sonnet written in a Volume of 

Shakespeare . . . . 

Sonnet to Fancy . • • . 



PACE 

365 
365 
366 

368 

369 
369 



Sonnet to an Enthusiast • . 369 

Sonnet 37° 

Sonnet 370 

Sonnet on receiving a Gift . . 370 

Sonnet . 371 

Sonnet . . • • « 371 

Sonnet: Silence • • • . 372 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE GEM. 



A Widow 373 

Tlie Farewell .... 374 
The Dream of Eugene Aram . 375 



On a Picture of Hero and Leander 38c. 
A May-Day . . • • . 380 



CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS. 



The Pugsley Papers 




. 384 


A Letter from an Emigrant 




• 395 


Sonnet on Steam . . 




.398 


A Report iiom Below . 




. 399 


The Las,t Shilling . 




. 402 


Ode to M. Brunei 




. 406 


A Plan for Writing Blank 


Verse 


in Rhyme 




. 40S 


A Letter from a Market-Ga 


rdener 


to the Secretary of the 


Horti- 


cultural Society . 




. 410 


D')ni<:;stic Asides . , 




. 412 


The Schoolmaster Abroad 




. 413 


Sketches on the Road . 




. 419 


John Day . . . 




. 422 


The Parish Revolution. 




. 425 


The Furlough . . 




. 434 


Number One . . 




• 436 


The Drowning Ducks . 




.438 


An Assent to the Summut 


of 


Mount Blank . . 




. 441 


A Horse-Dealer , • 




. 444 


The Fall 




. 446 


The Illuminati . . 




. 448 


Conveyancing . , 




• 453 


A I-etter from a Settler for Life 


in 


Van Diemeu's Land . 


, 


• 455 



Sonnet 458 

Epicurean Reminiscences of a 

Sentimentalist .... 458 
Saint Mark's Eve . . . 460 

I'm not a Single Man . . . 465 
A Greenwich Pensioner . . 469 
The Burning of the Love-Letter . 470 
The Angler's Farewell . . .471 
Sea-Song after Dibdin . . . 473 
A Singular Exhibition at Somerset 

House 474 

The Yeomanry .... 477 
An Unfavourable Review . . 479 
I'm going to Bombay . . . 485 
Ode to the Advocates for the Re- 
moval of Smithfield Market . 488 
Drawn for a Soldier . . . 492 
Ode for St Cecflia's Eve . . 494 
Reflections on Water . • . 499 
A Blow-up . . . • . 50a 
The Wooden Leg . » , 507 

The Ghost 509 

Ode to ^Tadame Hengler . • 511 
Rhyme and Reason , , .514 
The Double Knock • • • ^\% 
A Fox- Hunter . . • .516 
Bailey Ballads . . . .518 



CONTENTS. 



Letter from a Parish Clerk in 
Barbadoes to one in Hampshire 523 

Our Village 526 

The Scrape- Book . . . .530 
A True Story . . . .533 
The Sorrows of an Undertaker . 536 
The Carelesse Nurse-Mayd . . 539 
The Life of Zimmermann . , 540 
The Compass, with Variation* . 543 

The Duel 549 

Ode to Mr Malthas . , .550 
A Good Direction . . •554 
The Pleasures of Sporting , .556 
There's no Romance in that . 561 

The Abstraction . , , , 564 
Miller Redivivus . . , , 567 
A Zoological Report • • • 570 
Shooting Pains . . , •573 
The Boy at the Nore . . .577 
Great Earthquake at Mary-le-bone 580 
Ode to St Swithin . . .583 
The Apparition .... 586 
The Schoolmaster's Motto * . 589 
A Blind Man . . , . 591 
The Supper Superstition • . 592 
A Snake-Snack .... 594 
A Storm at Hastings . , . 596 
ines to a Lady on her Departure 
for India • • • • . 603 



Sonnet to a Scotch Girl washing 

Linen 605 

Sonnet to a Decayed Seaman . 606 
Huggins and Duggins . . . 607 
Domestic Didactics . . . 614 
The Broken Dish . . .611 
Ode to Peace .... 6i3 
A Few Lines on completing Forty- 
Seven 613 

To Mary Housemaid . . .613 
Pain in a Pleasure-Boat . . 614 
A Spent Ball . . . .618 
Literary and Literal . . . 619 
Sonnet to Lord Wharncliffe, on 

his Game-Bill .... 624 
The Undying One . . . 625 
Cockle V. Cackle .... 626 
Letter from an Old Sportsman . 630 
Tlie Sub-Marine .... 634 

The Island 635 

The Kangaroos : a Fable . . 639 
Ode for the Ninth of November . 641 

Rondeau 645 

London Fashions for November . 646 
Symptoms of Ossification . , 647 
Some Account of William Whiston 648 
Lines to a Friend at Cobham . 650 
To a Bad Rider . , , .651 
My Son and Pleir • • • 65a 



NATIONAL TALES. 



Preface • • • • . 655 
The Spanish Tragedy . . . 656 
The Miracle of the Holy Hermit . 677 
The Widow of Galicia . . . 680 
The Golden Cup and Dish of Silver 683 
1 he Tragedy of Seville . . 685 

The Lady in Love with Romance 689 
The Eighth Sleeper of Ephesus . 692 
Madeline ..... 694 
Masetto and his Mare . . . 698 
The Story of Michel Argenti . 701 
The Three Jewels , , . 704 

Geronimo and Ghisola ... 707 



The Fall of the Leaf . 


. •710 


Baranga . . • 


. . 713 


The Exile . . • 


. .7t6 


The Owl . 


. . 720 


The German Knight • 


. 722 


The Florentine Kinsmen 


. . 72b 


The Carrier's Wife . 


• 729 


The Two Faithful Lovers of Sicily 733 


The Venetian Countess 


• • 738 


A Tale of the Harem . 


. 746 


The Chestnut Tree 


. . 755 


The Fair Maid of Ludgate 


. 762 


The Three Brothers . 


. 769 



MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. 



'T'HOMAS HOOD was bom on the 23d May 1799, in the 
Poultry, at the house of his father, a partner in the firm of 
Vemor & Hood, booksellers and publishers. His mother was 
a Miss Sands, sister to the engraver of that name, to whom the 
subject of our memoir was afterwards articled. ' 

The family consisted of two sons, James and Thomas ; and of 
four daughters, Elizabeth, Anne, Jessie, and Catherine. 

Hood's father was a man of cultivated taste and literary 
inclinations, and was the author of two novels which attained 
some popularity in their day, although now their very names are 
forgotten. 

Thomas Hood was sent to a school in Tokenhouse Yard in 
the City, as a day-boarder. The two maiden sisters who kept the 
school, and with whom Hood took his dinner, bore the odd name 
of Hogsflesh, and they had a sensitive brother, who was always 
addressed as Mr H., and who afterwards became the prototype of 
Charles Lamb's unsuccessful farce. 

After the death of his father and his elder brother in rSii, he 
was apprenticed to his uncle, Mr Robert Sands, the engraver, and 
plied the burin for some years under his guidance. He thus 
learnt something of the art which he practised with such pleasant 
results in after-years in producing grotesque illustrations to his 
own verses and sketches. This sedentary employment not agree- 
ing with his health, he was sent for change to some relations at 
Dundee. He remained in Scotland for a considerable time, and 
made his first appearance in print there in 1S14, first in the 



X MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. 

Dundee Advertiser, then edited by Mr JRintoul, and subsequently 
in the Dundee Magazine. These early effusions we have not suc- 
ceeded in procuring, owing to the difficulty of obtaining access 
to local periodical publications, or we should have gratified the 
reader's curiosity by reprinting them. 

On his return to London, after practising for a short time as 
an engraver, and doing some fruitless desk-work in a merchant's 
office, an opening that offered more congenial employment pre- 
sented itself at last, when he was about twenty-two years of age. 
In 1 82 1, Mr John Scott, the editor of the Londoji Magazine, was 
killed in a duel. The magazine passed into the hands of Messrs 
Taylor & Hessey, who were friends of Hood's, and he was offered 
and acce])ted the sub-editorship. His first original paper ap 
pearcd in the number for July 182 1, and he continued to con 
tribute till the summer of 1823. 

Hood's connexion with the London Magazine was the means 
of bringing him into contact with many of the chief wits and 
literati of tlie time, and more especially with Charles Lamb, 
whose influence over his style and manner of writing is very 
clearly traceable. All these literary friendships have been delight- 
fully described in his own " Reminiscences." 

One of the contributors to the London Magazine was John 
Hamilton Reynolds, author of an exquisite little volume of verse 
entitled "The Garden of Florence," whose articles apj)eared 
under the pseudonym of " Edward Herbert." The acquaintance 
thus begun had lasting results. On the 5th May 1824, Hood was 
married to Reynolds's sister, Jane. In the following year (1825) he 
produced conjointly with his brother-in-law Ins first publication 
in a separate form, viz., " Odes and Addresses to Great People." 
This little volume rapidly passed through three editions, and made 
almost as great a stir as the " Rejected Addresses" of James and 
Horace Smith. A copy of the first edition, marked Ijy Hood him« 
self, and now in the possession of the present publishers, thus 
apportions the respective autliorship of the pieces it contains : — 



MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. 



Ode to Mr Graham , 








T. H. 


Ode to Mr M'Adam , 








J. H. Reynold*, 


Epistle to Mrs Fry . 








T, H. 


Ode to Richard Martin 








T. H. 


Ode to the Great Unknown 






T. H. 


To Mr Dymoke 








J. H.R. 


To Grimaldi . 








T. H. 


To Sylvanus Urban . 








J. H.R. 


To the Steam-Washing 


Company 




T. H. 


To Captain Parry . 








T. II. 


To Elhston . 








J. H.R. 


To Maiia Darlington . 








Joint. 


To Dr Kitchener , 








T. H, 


To the Dean and Chapt 


er 






J. H.R. 


To H. Bodkin, Esq. . 








Joint. 



In the present edition we have not thought it necessary oi 
desirable to include those pieces in the above hst which are 
assigned entirely to Reynolds's authorship. 

It was in the two series of " Whims and Oddities," * however, 
published in 1826 and 1827, and illustrated by his own pencil, 
that Hood first hit on the peculiar vein of humour by which he 
afterwards became most famous. These twin volumes obtained an 
immediate and decisive success, which is more than can be said 
of the volume of serious poems, " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," 
and of the two volumes of " National Tales," which followed them 
in rapid succession in 1827. And yet there is an indefinable 
grace and charm about the graver productions of Hood's muse, 
and a picturesque and sometimes weird atmosphere of romance 
and imagination about the prose stories, that have won the 
suffrages of many later readers, and that made it seem proper to 
reproduce them here as representative of one important side of 
Hood's genius, though not the comic or more popular side. 

His " Dream of Eugene Aram," first printed in an annual 
entitled " The Gem," which Hood edited in 1829, is represen- 
tative of another class of SLrious j)oems in which he excelled — 

* The title of this work was probably .suggested by a line in Mr Ilookhara 
Freie's poem of " The Monks and the Giants," published some years previously. 



«fi MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD, 

•* those which consist in the vivid imagination and abrupt lyric 
representation of ghastly situations in physical nature and in 
human life."* 

In this year Hood left London for Winchmore Hill, where he 
took a very pretty cottage situated in a pleasant garden. Here 
the little jeu d'esprit of " The Epping Hunt " t was written and 
published as a small pamphlet in 1829 (passing into a second 
edition in 1830), with six illustrations by George Cruikshank. 

At Winchmore Hill also his son was bom in 1830. In this 
year Hood commenced his Christmas serial entitled "The Comic 
Annual," which enjoyed a long run of public favour, and con- 
tinued to be published every winter, without intermission, until 
1839, when it was discontinued; but resumed for one year only 
in 1842, when the eleventh and last volume appeared. In 1830 
Hood also published a series of "Comic Melodies," which con- 
sisted of songs written for the entertainments of Mathews and 
Yates. The motto on the cover of each number was 

" A doleful song a doleful look retraces, 
And merry music maketh merry faces.** 

Over this was a comic illustration of the lines, consisting of some 
musical notes, the heads of which were filled in with laughing and 
grimacing countenances. 

About this period Hood was on several occasions induced 
to attempt dramatic composition for the stage. He wrote the 
libretto for a little English opera, brought out, it is believed, at the 
Surrey Theatre. Its name is lost now, although it had a good 
run at the time. Perhaps it may be recognised by some old play- 
goer by the fact that its dramatis personxs were all bees. He also 
assisted his brother-in-law (Reynolds) in the dramatising of " Gil 

* Professor Masson in Macmillan's Magazine, II. 328 (August i860), art 
Thomas Hood. 

t A companion volume to this, to be entitled " Ejisom Races," was announced 
In characteristic phrase on the back of the cover, but apparently the design 
was abandoned, as we cannot discover that such a pamphlet ever appeared. 



MEMOIR OP THOMAS HOOD. xiil 

Bias," produced at Drury Lane. For Mr Frederick Yates of 
the Old Adelphi Theatre he wrote a little entertainment entitled 
*' Harlequin and Mr Jenkins ; or, Pantomime in the Parlour," * 
and for other theatres two farces, entitled "York and Lan- 
caster ; or, a School without Scholars," and " Lost and Found." 
He likewise supplied the text of an entertainment called " The 
Spring Meeting," for Charles Mathews the elder. 

In 1832 Hood left Winchmore Hill, and became the occupier 
of a house, called Lake House, at Wanstead in Essex. Here he 
wrote the novel of " Tylney Hall," which was published in the 
usual three- volume form in 1834. 

It should be mentioned that during these years Hood was also 
a large contributor to the fashionable Annuals of the time, "The 
Forget Me Not," " The Souvenir," " Friendship's Offering," &c., 
and to the Literary Gazette and the Athenceum. 

In 1835 the failure of a publishing firm having involved Hood 
in pecuniary difficulties, he resolved to leave England and live 
on the Continent. Going over in March of that year, he fixed 
on Coblenz on the Rhine as the most suitable for his purpose. 
During about two years that place continued to be the head- 
quarters of the family. In the middle of 1837 he removed to 
Ostend. From this prolonged exile, which extended on to 1840, 
arose the volume published in that year and entitled " Up the 
Rhine," a work written in a series of letters, avowedly after the 
model of " Humphrey Clinker." 

After five years of expatriation, Hood returned to England and 
took a nouse at Camberwell. He became a contributor to the 
New Monthly Alagazine, then edited by Theodore Hook, upon 
whose death in the following year (1841), he himself succeeded 
to the editorship, and continued in that office until 1843, con- 
tributing to its pages a number of sketches and verses, which he 
republished in two volumes in 1844, with illustrations by John 
Leech, under the title of "Whimsicalities." In 1842 he had 
• Printed in Duncombe's edition of " Mathews and Yates at Home." 



»{v MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. 

removed to St John's Wood, where he continued to reside till hia 
death, first in Elm Tree Road, and then in Finchley Road. 

In the Christmas number of Punch for 1843 appeared the 
famous " Song of the Shirt," together with a less-known piece, 
"The Pauper's Christmas Carol." There are several other 
articles, poems, and cuts in the fourth and fifth volumes of Punch 
presumably by Hood. 

On New Year's day 1844 was started Hood's Monthly Magazine 
and Comic Miscellany, with a very promising staff of contributors. 

Meanwhile Hood's health had been gradually failing. Even 
during his sojourn on the Continent alarming symptoms had 
manifested themselves, and since his return to England, matters 
had gradually grown worse and worse. After some years of 
suffering and pain, all hope was at last given up. One night in a 
delirious wandering he was heard to repeat to his wife Jane the 
lovely words of the Scottish song — 

"I'm fading awa', Jean, 
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean 1 
I'm fading awa', Jean, 

To the land o' the leal 1 
But weep na, my ain Jean, 
The world's care's in vain, Jean, 
We'll meet and aye be fain, Jean, 
In the land o' the leal 1 " 

An offer of a pension from Government of ;^ioo a year, to be 
conferred on his wife, as his own life was so precarious, came 
through Sir Robert Peel in the latter part of 1844, but the grant 
was to take effect from the previous June. Sir Robert Peel did 
this welcome and friendly action in the most courteous and 
generous way, accompanying it with a letter in which he begged 
for one return — the opportunity of making Hood's personal 
acquaintance. The meeting, however, never took place, for Hood 
grew too ill to allow of its possibility, being only kept alive by 
frequent instalments of mulled port-wine. He wrote to his 
benefactor to this effect, and Sir Robert Peel replied in a 



MEMOIR OF THOMAS HOOD. xf 

beautiful and touching letter, earnestly hoping for his recovery. 
There are few more beautiful traits in the great statesman's 
character, and few stories more honourable to him, than this of 
his kindness to poor Hood during the last sad months of supreme 
suffering. He could die at least with the assurance that those 
nearest and dearest to him would not be reduced to beggary. 

The end grew nearer and nearer. Some weeks ensued of 
protracted anguish, of almost indescribable suffering, and of con- 
vulsive efforts to hold life yet a little longer. At last, on the 3d 
May 1845, ^fter two days' total unconsciousness, he breathed his 
last, having scarcely attained the age of forty-six. He was buried 
in Kensal Green Cemetery, and eighteen months afterwards his 
faithful and devoted wife was laid by his side. 

R. H. a 




EARLY ESSAYS AND 
SKETCHES. 

ODE TO DR KITCHENER,* 

Ye Muses nine inspire 
And stir up my poetic fire ; 
i Teach my burning soul to speak 

With a bubble and a squeak ! 
Of Dr Kitchener I fain would sing, 
Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles rin^ 

O culinary sage ! 

(I do not mean the herb in use. 

That always goes along with goose) 
How have I feasted on thy page : 
'' When hke a lobster boil'd the mom 
From black to red began to turn," 

Till midnight, when I went to bed, 

And clapt my tewah-diddle t on my head. 

Who is there cannot tell. 

Thou lead'st a life of living well? 

** What baron, or squire, or knight of the shirS 

Lives half so well as a holy Fry — er?" 

In doing well thou must be reckon'd 

The first, — and Mrs Fry the second ; 

/Vnd twice a Job, — for, in thy feverish toils, 

Thou w ast all over roasts — as well as boils. 

Thou wast indeed no dunce. 

To treat thy subjects and thyself at oncC: r 

Many a hungry poet eats 

His brains like thee, 

But few there be 
Could live so long on their receipts. 

• Loudon Magazine, November 1821. 

♦ The Doctor's composiiion lur a nightcap. 



TO HOPE. 

What living soul or sinner, 

Would slight thy invitation to a dinner. 
Ought with the Dan;iids to dwell, 

Draw i^ravy in a cullender, and hear 

For ever in his ear 
The pleasjnt tinkling of thy dinner bciL 

Immortal' Kitchener ! thy f^me 

Sh.ill i<een itself when Time makes game 
Of other m.en's — yea, it shall keep, all weathers, 
And thou sh.lt be upheld by thy pen feathers. 
Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly, 

Thy name shall pt rish never, 

But be magnified for ever — 
"w-By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly. 

Yea, till the world is done — 
— To a turn — and Time puts out the sun, 
Shall live the endless echo of thy name. 
But, as for thy more fleshy frame, 
Ah ! Death's carnivorous teeth will tittle 
Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold viotuajj 
But still thy fame shall be among the naii ni 
Preserved to the last course of generations. 

Ah me, mv sou! is touch'd with sorrow 

To think how Hesh must pass away— 

So mutton, that is warm to-day. 
Is cold, and turn'd to hashes on the morro'v t 

Farewell ! I would say more, but I 

Have other fish to fry. 



v. 



TO HOPE} 



Oh ! take, young seraph, take thy harp, 

And play to me so cheerily ; 
For grief is dark, and care is sharp, 

And life wears on so wearily. 
Oh ! take thy harp ! 
Oh ! sing as tnou wert wont to do, 

When, all vouth's sunny season long, 

I sat and lislen'd to thy song. 
And yet 'twas ever, ever new. 
With ma.;ic in its heaven-tuned string«» 

The future bliss thy constant theme. 
Oh ! then each little woe took wing 

Awa\-, like phantoms oi a dream. 
As if each sound 
That flutter'd round 

Had floated over Lethe's stream I 

• London Magazine, July 1821, 



TO HOPE. 

By all those bright and happy hours 

We spent iii life's sweet eastern bowers, 

Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show 

Ere buds were come, where flowers would uiow, 

And oft anticipate the rise 

Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies J 

By many a story of love and glory, 

And friendships promised oft to me; 

By all the faith I lent to thee, — 

Oh ! take, young seraph, take thy harp, 

And play to me so cheerily ; 
For grief is dark, and care is sharp, 

And life wears on so wearily. 
Oh 1 take thy harp 1 

Perchance the strings will sound less clear> 

That long have lain neglected by 
In sorrow's misty atmosphere ; 
It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken 

Such joyous notes so brisk and high ; 
But are its golden chords all broken ? 
Are there not some, though weak and low. 
To play a lullaby to woe ? 

But thou canst sing of love no more, 

For Celia show'd that dream was vain ; 
And many a fancied bliss is o'er. 

That comes not e'en in dreams again. 
Alas ! alas! 
How pleasures pass, 
And leave thee now no subject, save 
The peace and bliss beyond the grave! 
Then be thy flight among the skies : 

lake, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing. 
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise 
O er all its tearful clouds, and sing 
On skylark's wing ! 

Another life-spring there adorns 

Another youth, without the dread 
Oi cruel care, whose crown of thorns 

Is here for manhood's aching he id,— 
Oh ! tl-.ere are realms of welcome day, 
A world where tears are wiped away ! 
Then be thy flight among the skies : 

Take, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing^ 
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise 

O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing 
On skylark's wing ! 



THE COOK'S ORACLE. 



THE COOK'S ORACLED 

TTie CooVs Oracle; conlainiuj; J\ecdpis foi- Plain Cookery^ &'c.; i^f7u^oleifin^/lit 
Rdsuli of actual Experiments instituted in the Kitchen of a Physician. 

DR KITCHENER has greatly recognised the genius of his name 
by taking boldly the path to which it points ; disregarding all 
the usual seductions of life, he has kept his eye steadily on the larder, 
the Mecca of his appetite ; and has unravelled all the mysteries and 
intricacies of celery sotip, and beef haricot, to the eyes of a reading 
public. He has taken an extensive kitchen range over the whole 
world of stews, and broils, and roasts, and comes home to the fireside 
(from which, indeed, his body has never departed), boiling over with 
knowledge — stored with curiosities of bone and sinew — a made-up 
human dish of cloves, mace, curry, cat-up, cayenne, and the like. He 
has sailed over all the soups, has touched at all the quarters of the lamb, 
has been, in short, round the stomach world, and returns a second 
Captain Cook! Dr Kitchener has written a book; and if he, good 
easy man, should think to surprise any friend or acquaintance by slily 
asking, "Wh.u book have I written?" he would be sure to be 
astounded with a successful reply, "A book on Cookery." His name 
is above all disguises. In the same way a worthy old jjentleman of 
our acquaintance, who was wont to lead his visitors around his kitchen 
garden (the Doctor will prick up his ears at this) which he had care- 
fully and cunningly obscured with a laurel hed:4e. and who always 
said, with an exulting tone, " Now, you would be puzzled to say where 
the kitchen g uden was situated," once met with a stony he.irted m m 
who remorselessly answered, "Not I ! over that hedge, to be sure." 
The Doctor might exi ect you, in answer to his query, to say— 
"A book, sir ! Why, perhaps you have plunged your whole soul into 
the ocean of an epic ; or rolled your mind, with the success of a 
Sisyphus, up the hill of metaphysics; or pi .yed the sed ite game of 
the mathematics, that Chinese puzzle to English minds ! or gone a 
tour with Dugald Stewart, in search of the picturesque, or leaped double 
sentences and waded through meta(ihors, in a grammatical steeple- 
chase with Colonel Thornton; or turned liter-iiy cuckoo, and gone 
sucking the eggs of other people's books, and making the woods of 
the world echo with one solitary, complaining, r^7//V7xv'/;^ note." Such 
might be the Doctor's notion of a reply, to wliich we fancy we see him 
simmering \v\\}ci delight, and saying, "No, sir! I have not meddled 
either with the curry of poetry or the cold meat of prose. I have not 
wasted over the slow fire of the metaphysics, or cut up the mathe- 
matics into thin slices — I have not lost myself amongst the kick-shaivs 
of fine scenery, or pampered myself on the mock-tunle of metaohors. 
Neither have I dined at the table and the expense of other men's 
minds! No, sir, I have written on cookery, on the kitchen, on the 
solids — 'the substantials. Sir Giles, the substantials !'" 

* London Magazine, Oct. 1821. 



THE COOK'S ORACLE % 

If it were not that critics are proverbial for having no bowels, we 

should hesitate nt entering the riaradise of pies and pviddint:s which 
Dr Kitchener has opened to us ; tor the steam of his rich sentences 
rises about our senses like the odours of flowers nrownd the imagina* 
tion of a poet ; and larded beef goes nij^h to lord it over our bewil- 
dered appetites. But being steady men, of sober and temperate 
habits, and ustd to privatinns in the way of food, we shall not scruple 
at looking a leg of mutton in the face or shaking hands wiih a 
shoulder of veal. " Minced cnllops" nothing daunt us ; we brace our 
nerves, and are not overwlielnitd with "cockle catsup!" When 
Bays asks his friend, " How do \ ou do when you write?" it would 
seem that he had the Cook's Oracle in his eye — for to men of any 
mastication, never was there a book that required more training for 
a quiet and useful perusal. Cod's-head rises before you in all its 
glory ! while the oy^iers revolve around it, in their firmament of 
melitd butter, like its well-ordLred satellites ! Moorgame, mackerel, 
mussels, fowls, eggs, and force-meat balls, start up in all directions 
and dance the hays in the imagination. We should recommend those 
readers with whom dinner is a habit, not to venture on the Doctor's 
pages, without seeing that their hun^^er, like a ferocious house-do^^, is 
carefully tied up. To read four pajes with an unchained appetite, 
would bring on dreadful dreams of being destroyed with spits, or 
drowned in mulligatawny soup, or of having your tongue neatly 
smothered in your own brains, and, as Mathews sav s, a lemon stuck 
in your mouth. We cannot but conceive that such reading, in such 
unprepared minds, would have strange influences ; and that the 
dreams of persons would be dished up to suit the various palates. 
The school-girl would, like the French goose, "be persuaded to roast 
itself.'' The indolent man would "sleep a fortnight," and even then 
not be fit for use. The lover would dream th.^t his heart was 
overdone. The author would be roasted alive in his own quills and 
basted \\'\\\\ cold ink. It were an endless task to follow this specula- 
tion ; and indeed we are keeping our readers too long without the 
meal to which we have taken the liberty of inviting them. The 
dinner ''bell invites" us — we go, and it is done. 

The book, the Cook's Oracle, opens with a preface, as other 
boous occasionally do ; hut "there the likeness ends ;" tor it continues 
with a whole bunch of introductions, treating of conks, and invita- 
tions to dinner, and refusals, and "friendly advice," and weights and 
measures, and then we get fairly launched on the sea of boiling, 
broiling, roasting, stewing, and again return and cast anchor among 
the vegetables. It is impossible to say where the book begins; it is 
a heap of initiatory chapters — a parcel of graces before meat. — a bunch 
of heads, — the asparagus of literature. You are not troubled with 
"more last words of Mr Baxter," but are delighted, and r^'dehghied, 
with more first words of Dr Kitchener. He makes s.everal staris like 
a restless race-horse before he fairly gets upon the second course ; or 
rather, like L idy Macbeth's dinner party, he stands much upon the 
order of his going. But now, to avoid sinking into the same trick, we 
will proceed without further preface to conduct our readers through 
the maze of pots, gridirons, and fr) ing pans, \\ hich Dr Kitchener hiis 



■S THE COOK'S ORACLE. 

reiidfred a very poetical, or we should say, a very palaltble ainus*' 

ment. 

'^\\t first preface tells us, inter alia, that he has worked all the 
culinary pioblcnis which Ins book contains in his own kitchen ; and 
th.it, after this warm experif nee, he did not venture to print a sawce, 
or a stew, until he had read " two hundred cookery books," which, as 
he says, "he patiently pioneered through, before lie set about record- 
ing the results of his o«n exp-iriments ! " We scarcely thought there 
had been so many volumes written oi| the Dutch-oven. 

The first introduction begins thus : 

" The followmg receipts are not a mere marrowless collection of 
shreds, and patches, and cuttings, and paslings, l)ut a(^^//<?y?c/^ rci^ister 
of practical facts, — accumulated by a persever.ince not to be subdued, 
or evaporated, by the igniterous terrors of a roasting fire in the dog 
days — in defian( e of the odoriferous and cnlefacient repellents of 
roasting — boiling — frying — and broiling; moreover, the author has 
submitted to a labour no prectding Cookery Book maker, perhaps, 
ever attempted to encounter — having eaten each receipt before he set 
it down in his book." 

We should like to see the Doctor, we confess, after this extraordinary 
statement. To have superintended the -gitations or the pot — to have 
hung affectionately over a revolving calls heart — to have patit-ntiy 
witnessed the noisy marriage of bubble and squeak — to have coolly 
investigated the mystery of a haricot— appears within the compass of 
any old lady or gentleman, whose frame couid stand the fire and 
whose soul could rule the roast. But to have eaten the substantial? 
of four hundred and forty closely-printed pages is '"a thing to read of. 
not to tell." It calls for a man of iron interior, a man alien i appetens, 
siii profusiis. It demands the rival of time ; an edax rernni ! The 
Doctor does not tell us how he travelled from gridimn to iryin:.4-pan — 
from fryirg-pan to Dutch-oven — from Dutch-oven to spit — from spit 
to pot — from pot to fork — he leaves us to guess at his progress. We 
presume he ate his way, page by page, throui;h fish, flesh, fowl, and 
vegetable ; he would have left us dead among the soups and gravies, 
li.id a whole army of m.irtyrs accompanied him on this Russian re- 
tre 't of the apoetite, we siiould have found them strewing the way ; 
and him alone, the Napoleon of the task, living and fattening at the 
end of the journey. The introuuction L;oes on very learnedly, descant- 
ing upon Shakespeare, Descartes. Dr Johnson, Mrs Glasse, Professor 
Bradley, P\thagoras, Miss Seward, and other |)ersons equally illustri- 
ous. The Doctor's chief aim is to prove, we believe, that cookery is 
the most laudable pursuit, and the most pleasurable amusement, of 
hfe. Much depends on the age of your domestics ; for we are told 
that " it is a good m;xim to seK ct servants not younger than Thirty." 
Is it so? Youth, "'thou art siiamed !" This first introduction con- 
cludes with a long eulogy u].on the Doctor's "laborious stove work ;" 
aiul upon the spirit, temper, and al^iiliiy with which he has dressed his 
book. The Doctor append- to this introduction a chapter called 
"Culinary Curiosities," in which he gives the tollowmg recipe for 
"persuading a goose to ro ^st itself." We must say it out-horrors ul/ 
tke horrors we ever read of. 



THE COOK'S ORACLE. 



"How TO ROAST AND EAT A GOOSE ALIVE. 

*Tnke a goose, or a duck, or some such lively creature (but a goose 
is best of all for this 'purpose), puli off all her feathers, only the. head 
and neck must be spared, then make a fire round about her, not too 
close to her, that the smoke do not choke her, and that the fire may 
not burn her too soon ; nor too tar oft', that she may not escape free : 
within the circle of the fire let there be set small cups and pots full of 
water wherein salt and honey are mingled, and let there be set also 
ch.irgers full of sodden apples, cut into small pieces in the dish. The 
goose must be all larded and basted over with butter, to make her the 
more fit to be enten, and may roast the better : put then fire about 
her, but do not make too much haste, whenas you see her begin to 
roast ; for by walking about, and flying here and there, being cooped 
in by the fire th .t stups her way out. the unwearied goose is kept in ;* 
she will fall to drink the water to quench her thirst, and cool her heart, 
and all her body, and the apple-sauce will make her dung, and cleanse 
and empty her. And when she roastetli, and consumes inwardly, 
always wet her head and heart with a wet soonge ; and when you see 
her giddy with running, and begin to stumble, her heart wants mois- 
ture, and she is roasted enou;jh. Take her up, set her before your 
guests, and she will cry as you cut off anv part from her, and will be 
almost eaten up before she be dead. It is mighty pleasant to behold ! ! ! 
See Weckefs Secrets of Nature, in folio, London, 1660, pp. 148, 309." 

The next chapter, or introduction (for we are not within forty spits 
length of the cookery directions yet), is entitled '* Invitations to 
Dinner;" and commences thus : — 

"In the affairs of the mouth the strictest punctuality is indispens- 
able; — the gastronomer ought to be as accurate an observer of tin.e 
as the astronomer — the least delay produces fatal and irreparable mis- 
fortunes." 

It ap earing, therefore, that delay is dangerous, as mammas say to 
their daughfers on certain occasions, the Doctor directs that "the 
dining-room should be furnished with a go >d-going clock." He then 
s eaks of food "well done when it is done," which leads to certain 
leaned sentences upon indigestion. The sad disregard of dinner-hours 
generally observed meets with his most serious displeasure and re- 
buke ; but to refuse an invitation to dinner is the capital crime, for 
which there is apparently no capital punishment. "Nothing can be 
more disobliging than a refusal which is not grounded on some very 
strong and unavoidable cause, except not coining at the appointed 
hour ; according to the laws of conviviality, a certiticate from a sheriff's 
officer, a doctor, or an undertaker, are the only pleas which are 

• This cook of a goose, or goose of a cook, whichever it may be, strangely 
reminds us of the Doctor's own iiUense and eniliu=iastic bustle among tiie 
b'ltter-hoats. We fancy we .'^ee him, and not the goose, "walking about, and 
fiving here and there, being cooped in by ihe fire." Ly this time, we should 
suppose, he must be about "roasted enough." 



• THE COOK'S ORACLE. 

admissible. The duties which invitation imposes do not fall only oa 

the persons invited, but, like all other social duties, are recij)rocal." 

If you should, therefore, fortunately happen to be arrested, or heave 
had the good luck to fracture a limb, or, if better than nil, you should 
have taken a box in that awful theatre at «hi«h all must be present 
once and for ever ; you may be pardoned refusing the invitation of 
some tiresome friend to take a chou ; but there is no other excuse, no 
other available excuse, for absenting yourself; no mental inaptitude 
will save you. Late comers are thus rebuked : — 

" There are some who seldom keep an appointment ; we can assure 
them they as seldom ''scape without whipping,' and exciting those 
murmurs which inevitably proceed from the best-regulated stomachs 
—when they are empty and impatient to be filled." 

Carving is the next subject of the Doctors c.ire ; but he resolutely 
and somewhat vehemently protests against your wielding the king of 
knives at any otlier table than your own : thus for ever excluding an 
author from the luxuries of table-anatomy. After giving an erudite 
passage from the "Almanach des Gourmands," tUe Doctor wanders 
into anecdote, and becomes facetious after the following recipe : — 

" I once heard a gentle hint on this subject given to a blue-mould 
fancier, who, by looking too long at a Stilton cheese, was at last com- 
pletely overcome by his eye exciting his appetite, till it became quite 
ungovernable, and unconscious of e\erything but the inity object of 
his contemplation, he Ijegan to pick out, in no small portions, the 
priinest parts his eye could select from the centre of tiie cheese. 

"The good-natured foimder of the feast, highly amused at the ecsta- 
sies each morsel created in its passage over ilie palate of the enraptured 
gourmand, thus encouraged the perseverance of his guest — " Cut 
away, my dear sir, cut away, use no ceremony, I pray : — I hope you 
wdl pick out all the best of my cheese — the rind and the rotten will 
do very well for my wife and family ! " 

There is something so serene and simple in the above little story, 
that we recommend it to persons after dmner in preference to those 
highly-seasoned and spicy jests which Mr Joseph Miller has potted 
for the use of posterity The next introduction contains '" Friendly 
Advice to Cooks and other servants ;" but we cannot he.p thinking 
that Dr Swift has in some degree forestalled our own good Doctor in 
this department of literature, altliough perhaps Dr Kitchener is the 
most sober of counsellors. Tlie following, to be sure, is a little sus- 
picious : — "Enter into all their plans of economy, and endeavour 
to make the most of everything, as well for your own honour 
3s your master's profit." This, without the note, would be unex- 
ceptionable ; but the Doctor quotes from Dr Trusler (all the Doctors 
are redolent of servants) as follows : — " I am persuaded that no ser- 
vant ever saved her master sixpence but she found it in the end 
in her own pocket.'^ — " Have the dust removed," s lys Dr Kitchener, 
"regularly every fortnight !" — What dust f — Not that, we trust, which 
people are often entreated to come down with. T'ie accumulation of 
soot has its dire evils : for '• many good dinners have been spoiled, and 
many houses burned down, by the soot falling." Thus the Doctor very 
vroperly puts the greater evil first. " Give notice to your employe:! 



THE COOK'S ORACLE. 9 

u'hen the contents of your coal cellar are diminished to a chaldron." 
Diininished I we should be glad to hear when our cellars had increased 
to thiii stock. There is no hope, then, for those chnmber-gentUmeri 
who fritter away their lives by sack or Ijushel ! Dr Kitchener is rather 
abstruse and oarticular in another of his directions : — " The best rule 
for 7iiarketi>!g is to pay ready money fo?- evetything." This is a good 
rule with the elect; but, is there no luxury in a baker's VjiII ? Are 
butchers' reckonings nothing? Is there no virtue in a milk-tally? 
We cannot help thinking that tick was a great invention, and gives 
many a man a dinner that would otherwise go unfed. 

The chapter on weights and measures is short, but deeply interest- 
ing and intense. There is an episode upon trough nutmeg- graters 
that would do the water-gruel generation good to hear. 

And now the book be.Liins to boil. The reader is told that meat takes 
twenty minutes to the pound; and that block-tin saucepans are the 
bfst. We can fish out little tlse, except a long and rather skilful cal- 
culation of the manner in which meat jockeys itself and reduces its 
weight in the cooking. Buckle and S.im Chiffney are nothing to 
"a leg of mutton with tl.e shank bone taken out ;" and it perhaps 
might not be amiss if the Newmarket profession were to consider how 
far it would be practicable to substitute the cauldron for the blanket, 
and thus reduce by steam. We should suppose a young gentleman, 
with half-an-hour's boiling, would ride somewhere about feather- 
weight. 

B iking is dismissed in a pnge and a half. We are sorry to find 
that some joints, when fallen into poverty and decay, are quite unworthy 
of credit. "When baking a joint oi poor meat, before it has been 
half baked I have seen it (what?) start from the bone, and shrivel up 
scarcely to be believed" 

Roasting is the next object of Dr Kitchener's anxious care ; and if 
this chapter be generally read, we shall not be surprised to see people 
in future roasting their meat before their doors and in their areas : tor 
the Doctor says : — 

^'■Roasting should be done in the open air, to ventilate the meat from 
its own fumes, and by tlie radiant heat of a clear glowing fire, — other- 
wise it is in i'act baked — the machines the economical grate-makers 
call roasters, are, in plain English, ovens." 

The Doctor then proceeds, not being con'ent with telling you how 
to cook \our victuals, to advise caretuUy as to the best method of coi>k- 
ing i\\c^re. "The fire that is but just sufficient to receive the noble 
sirloin will parch up a lighter joint;" whicii is plainly a translation 
int<j the cook's own particular language of "temjKr the wind to the 
shorn lamb." The cha()ter does not conclude without observing that 
"E\erybody knows the_ advantage of slow boiling — slow'roasting is 
equally important." This is an axiom. 

Frying is a very graceful and lively species of cooking, though yield- 
ing perhaps in its vivacity and music to b7-oiling — but of this more anon. 
We are sorry to find the Doctor ende.ivouring to take away from the 
originaHty of frying, classing it unkindly with the inferior sorts oi 
boiling^calling it, in fict, the mere corpulence of boiling. 

"Afr)ing-pan should be about four inches deep, with a perfectlj 



10 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 

flat ard thick bottom, twelve inches long, and nine bioad. with perpen 
dicular sides, and must be half filled with fat : good frying is, in tact, 
boiling in fat. To make sure that the pan ^s quite clean, rub a little fal 
over it, and then make it warm, and rub it with a clean cloth." 

Broiling follows. We really begin to be enacting this sort of 
cookery ourselves, from the vigor and spirit with which we have 
rushed along in the company of Dr. Kitchener. Broiling is the poetrj 
of cooking. The lyre-like shape of the instrument on which it is per- 
formed, and the brisk and pleasant sounds that arise momentarily, 
are rather musical than culinary. We are transported, at the thought, 
to that golden gridiron in the Beef Steak Club, which seems to confine 
the wliite cook in his burning cage, which generates wit, whim, and 
song, for hours together, and pleasantly blends the fanciful and the 
substantial in one laughing and robust harmony. 

The Doctor is profound on the subject of vegetables, and when we 
consider the importance of it, we are not surprised to hear him earnestly 
exclaim, " I should as soon think of roasting a?i animal alive, as of 
boiling a vegetable after it is dead." No one will question that the one 
is quite as pardonable as the other. Our readers cannot be too par- 
ticular in looking to their brocoli and potatoes'. " This branch of 
cookery requires the most vigilant attention. If vegetables are a minute 
or two too lon,g over the fire, they lose all their beauty and flavor. 
If not thoroughly boiled tender, they are tremendously indigestible, 
and much more troublesome during their residence in the stomach 
than underdone meats." 

We pass over the rudiments of dressing fish, and of compounding 
broths and soups, except with remarking, that a turbot is said to be 
better for 7tot being fresh, and that " lean juicy beef, mutton, or veal 
form the basis of broth." 

Gravies and sauces are not neglected. The Doctor writes, " How- 
ever 'les pompeusQs bagatelles de la cuisine masquce,' may tickle the 
fancy of demi-connoisseurs, who, leaving the substance to pursue the 
shadow, prefer wonderful and whimsical metamorphoses and things 
extravagantly expensive, to those which are intrinsically excellent — in 
whose mouth mutton can hardly hope for a welcome unless accom- 
panied by venison sauce — or a rabbit any chance for a race down the 
red lane, without assuming the forrii of a frog or a spider — or pork 
without being either 'goosified' or 'lambified,' and game and poultry in 
the shape of crawfish or hedgehogs ; these travesties rather show the 
patience than the science of the cook, — and the bad taste of those 
who prefer such baby tricks to old English nourishing and substantial 
plain cookery. We could have made this the biggest book with half 
the trouble it has taken vie to make it the best ; — concentration and 
perspicuity have been my aim." 

We do not know what thp Doctor understands as "a big book;" 
but to our notions (and we are experienced in the weights and 
measures of printed works) the Cook's Oracle is a tolerably huge 
and Gog-like production. We should have been glad to have had a 
calculation of what the manuscript lost in the printing. In truth a 
comparative scale of the wasting of meat and prose during the cooking 
would be no uninteresting performance. For our parts, we can only 



THE COOK'S ORACLE. Tl 

remark from experience, that these our articles in the London Maga- 
rine boil up like spinnch. We fancy, when written, that we h;ive a 
heap of le.ives fit to feed thirty columns ; and they absolutely and 
alarmingly shrink up to a page or two when dressed by the com- 
positor. 

The romantic fancy of cooks is thus restrained : — 

" The imagination of most cooks is so incessantly on the hunt for 
a relish, that they seem to think they cannot make sauce sufticiently 
savoury, without putting into it everything that ever was eaten ; and 
supposing every addition must be an improvement, they frequemly 
overpower the natural flavour of their plain sauces, by overlo iding 
them with salt and spices, &c.,— but, remember, these will be de- 
teriorated by any addition, save only just salt enougii to awaken the 
palate — the lover of 'piquance' and compound flavours may have 
recourse to the ' Magazine of Taste.'" 

Again — 

"Why have clove and allspice, — or mace and nutmeg, in the 
same sauce? — or marjoram, thyme, and savory— or onions, leeks, 
eschallots, and garlick ? One will very well supply the place of the 
other, and the frugal cook may save something considerable by 
attending to this to the advantage of her employers, and her own time 
and trouble. You might as well, to make soup, order one quart of 
water from the Thames, another from the New River, a third from 
Hampstead, and a fourth from Chelsea, with a certain portion of 
spring and rain water." 

The Doctor himself, however, in spite of his correction of the cooks, 
is not entirely free from the fanciful. \\ hen you have opened a bottle 
of catsup, he says, ""Ube onlv the best superfine velvet taper corks." 
This is drawing a cmk with the hand of a poet. 

And now, will the reader believe it.? The work commences afresh ! 
After all our labour, — alter all our travelling through boiling, broiling, 
roasting, &c., we find that we have the whole to go over agiiin. To 
our utter dismay, p. 142 begins anew witii — boiling \ It is li'tle com- 
fort to us that joints and cuttings come in for their distinct treatment : 
we seem to have made no way, and sit down with as much despair a> 
a young school-girl, who, after three-quarters of a year's dancing, is 
put back to the Scotch step. Beef has been spoken of before ; but 
we have not at all made up our ininds on the fallowing subject : — 

" Ubs. — In Mrs Mason's Laciirs' Assistant tins joint is cilled haunch- 
bone ; in Henderson's Cooki-ry, edge-bone; in Domestic M..na.ge-" 
ment, aitch-bont; ; in Reynolds' Coukery, ische-bone ; in Mrs Lydia 
Fisher's Prudent Housewife, ach-bone ; in Mrs MTvcr's Cookery, 
hook-bone. We ha\e also fsecn it spelt each-bone, and ridge-bone, 
and we have also heard it called natch-bone." 

Of " half a calf's head," Dr Ktchener says, slilv enough, " If you like 
\\. pill-dressed^ score it .^tiperjicially ; beat up the yolk of an &%'g, and 
rub it over the head with ?i feather ; powder it,^' &.c. Such a calt''« 
head as this, so full-dressed, might be company for the best nob]** 
man's ditto in the land. 

It is quite impossible for us to accomvany Dr Kitchener reguhirly 
through "roasting, frying, vegetables." &c., as we are by no means 



la THE COOK'S ORACLE. 

sure that our readers would sanction the encore. We shall pick a hrft 

here and a bit there, from the Doctor's dainty Lirder ; and tike care 
to choose, as the English do with a French bill of fare, from those 
niceties which are novelties. 

"A pig," observes the Doctor, as though he were speaking of an> 
other dull, obstinate personage, "is a very troublesime subject to 
roast. Most persons have them baked: send a quarter of a pound of 
butter, and beg the baker to baste it well." The lollowing occurs to 
us to be as difficult a direction to fulfil as any of Sir Tliomas Parkins's 
wrestling instructions : " Lay your pig back to back in the dish, with 
one h:ilf of the head on each side, and the ears one at < ach end, which 
you must take care to make nice and crisp, or you will ^^et sculded, 
as the good man was who bought his wife a pig with one ear." Tlie 
point at the end is like the point of a spit. Agam : "A suiking pig, 
like a young child, must not be leit for an inst.mt !" Never was such 
affection manifested before for this little interesting and persecuted 
tribe. 

If Izaak Walton be the greatest of writers on the catching of fish, 
Dr Kitchener is, bexond doubt, triumphant over all who have written 
upon the dressing of them. The Doctor dwells upon "the hne pale 
red rose colour" of pickled salmon, till you doubt whether he is not 
ndmiring a carnation. " Cod's skull" becomes flowery and attractive ; 
and tine "silver eels," when "stewed Wiggy's way," swim in beauty 
as well as butter. The Doctor points out the best method of killing 
this perversely living fish, observing, very justly, "that the humane, 
executioner does certain criminals the favour to hang them before he 
breaks them on the wheel." 

Of s.ilmon the Do* tor rather quaintly diud- posingly observes, "The 
thinnest part of the fish is iVrn Jaitest. If you have any leit, put it into 
a pie-dish, and cover it," &c. 1 l^e direction is condiiinnal, we perceive. 

" Remember to choose your lobsters * heavy and lively.^ " — " Motion," 
says the Doctor, "is the index of their freshness." 

Upon oysters Dr Kitchener is eloquent indeed. He is, as it were, 
"native here, and to the manner born." 

"The true lover of an oyster will have some regard for the feelini^s 
of his little favourite, and will never abandon it to the mercy of a 
bungling operator — but will open it himself, and contrive to detach 
the fish from the shell so dexterously, that the oyster is hardly con- 
scious he has been ejected from his lodging, till he feels the teeth of the 
piscivorous t;ourm ind tickling him to death." 

Who would not be an o.st'T to be thus surprised, to be thus pleas- 
ingly ejected from its tenement of moiher-of-pearl, to be thus tickled 
to death .? When we are placed in our shell, we should have no ob- 
jection to be astonished with a similar deliciite and titillating opening! 

Giblet soup rec[uires to be eaten with the fingers. We were nut 
aware that these handy instruments could be used successfully in the 
devouring of gravies and soups. 

'■^ N.B. — This is rather a iamily dish than a company one; the 
bones cannot be well picked without the help of a live pincers. Since 
Tom Coryat introduced forks, A.D. 1642, it has not been the fashion 
to put * pickers and stealers ' into soup." 



THE COOK'H ORACLE. 13 

After giving a most elaborate recipe for mock turtle soup, he pra« 

cecds — 

''This soup was eaten by the committee of taste with unanimous 
applause, and they pronounced it a very satisfactory substitute for 
'the far fetched and dear bought' turile ; winch itself is indebted for 
its title of sovereign of savounness ' to the rich soup with which it is 
surrounded ; without its paraphernalia of double relishes, a * starved 
turtle ' has not more intrinsic sai'idity than a FATTED CALF." 

And a little further on he observes — 

" Obi. — This is a delicious soup, within ^he reach of those ' who eat 
to live;' but if it had been composed expressly for those who only 
* live to eat,' I do not know how it could have been made more agree- 
able ; as it is, the lover of good eating will 'wisii his throat a mi.e 
long, and every inch of it palate.'" 

Our readers will pant to have " Mr Michael Kelly's sauce for boiled 
tripe, calf's-head, or cow-heel." It is this — 

"Garlick vmegar, a tablespoonful ; of mustard, brown sugar, and 
black pepper, a teaspoonful each ; stirred into half a pint of oiled 
melted butter." 

Gad-a-mercy, what a gullet must be in the possession of Mr Michael 
Kelly ! 

We think the following almost a superfluous direction to cooks : — 
" Take your chops out of the frying-pan," p. 324 ; but then he tells 
you in another place, " to put your tongue into plenty of cold water ;" 
p. 156, which makes all even agam. 

After giving ample directions for the making of essence of anchovy, 
the Doctor rather damps our ardour for entering noon it. by the fol- 
lowing oijservaiion : "Mem. — You cannot make essence oj anchovy 
hall so cheap as you can buy iL' 

The following passage is rather too close an imitation of one of the 
puff directions in the Critic : — • 

"To a pint 01 the cleanest and strongest rectified spirit (sold by 
Rickards, Piccadilly), add two drachms and a half of the sweet oil of 
or.inge peel (sold by Stewart, No. n Old Broad Street, near the Bank), 
shake it up," &c. 

" Obs. — We do not offer this receipt as a rival to Mr Johnson's 
curagoa ; it is only proposed as an humble substitute for that incom- 
parable liqueur." 

The Doctor proceeds to luxuriate upon made dishes, &c. ; in the 
course of which he says, " The sirloin of beef I divide into three f)arts : 
I first have it nicely boned!" This is rather a suspicious wav of 
having it at all. Mrs Phillips's Irish stew has all the lascination of her 
country-women. In treating of shin of beef, the Doctor gives us a 
proverb which we never remember to have heard before. 

'■ Of all the fowls of the air, commend me to tlie shin of beef: for 
there's marrow for the master, meat for the mistress, gristles for the 
servants, and bones for the dogs." 

On pounded cheese the Doctor writes, " Thcpiguance of this butlery- 
caseous relish," &c. Is not this a little overdone f The passige, how- 
ever, on the frying of eg:4S makes up for all. 

*' Be sure the frying-pan is quite clean ; when the fat is hot, break 



14 TO CEI.IA. 

two or three eggs into it ; do not turn them, but, while they are frying, 
keep pouring some of the fat over them with a spoon : when the yolk 
just begins to look white, which it will ia about a couple of minutes, 
they are done enough ; — the white must not lose its transparency, but 
the yolk be seen blushing through it : — if they are done nicely, they 
will look as white and delicate as if they had been poached : take 
them up with a tin slice, dram the fat from them, trim them neatly, 
and send them up with the bacon round them." 

''The beauty of a poached egg is for the yolk to be seen bluxhL)ig 
through the white, which should only be just sufficiently hardened to 
form a transparent veil for the egg." 

So much for the Cook's Oracle. The style is a piqitaJit sauce to 
the solid food of the instructions ; and we never recollect reading 
sentences that relished so savourily. The Doctor appears to have 
written his work upon the back of a dri[)ping-pan, with the point of his 
spit, so very cook-like does he dish up his remarks. If we were to be 
cast awav upon a desert island, and could only carry one book ashore, 
we should take c;ire to secure the Cook's Oracle ; for let victuals be ever 
so scarce, there are pages in that erudite book that are, as Congreve's 
Jeremy says, " a feast for an emperor." Who could starve with sucb 
R larder of readini; ? 



TO CELfA.* 

Old fictions sny that Love hath eyes, 

Yit sees, unhappy boy ! witli none ; 
Blind as the night ! but fiction lies, 
For Love doth always see with one. 

To one our graces all unveil, 
To one our tla^s are all exposed ; 
But when with tenderness we hail, 
He smiles and keeps the critic closed. 

But when he's scorn'd, abused, estranged. 
He opes the eye of evil ken. 
And all his aui^el friends are changed 
To demons — and are hated then ! 

Yet once it happ'd that, semi- blind, 
He met thee on a summer day, 
And took thee for his mother kind, 
And frown'd as he was push'd away. 

But still he saw thee shine the same, 
Though he had op.d his evil eye, 
And found that nothing but her shame 
Was left to know his mother by ! 

* London Magazine, April 1822. 



PRESENTIMENT. 

And ever since that morning sun, * 
He thinks of thee, and blesses Fate 
That he can look with both on one 
Who hath no ueliness to hate. 



PRESENTIMENT. 

A FRAGMENT.* 

IF a mvci has a little child to whom he bows his heart and stretches 
forth his arms — if he has an only son, or a little daughter, 
ivith her sweet face nnd innocent hands, with l.er mother's voice, only 
louder — and her mother's e\es, only brighter — let him go and caress 
lliem while they are his, for the dead possess nothmg. Let him put 
fondness in his breath while it is with him, and caress hiis babes as if 
they would be fatherless, and blend his fingers with their i^dossy hair 
as if it were a frul, frail gossamer. And if he be away, let him hasten 
homeward with his impatient spirit before him, plotting kisses for their 
lips ; but if he be far distant, let him read my story, and weep and 
utter fond bre.uh, kissing the words before they go, wishing that they 
could reach his children's car. And yet let him be glad ; for though 
he is beyond seas, he is still near them while Death is V-ehind him — 
for the greater distance sw.illows the less. And the wings of angels 
may waft his love to trieir fir-away tiioughts, silently, like the whisper- 
ings of their own spirits while they weep for their f;:ther. 

It was in the days of my bitterness, when care had bewildered me, 
and the feverish strife of this world had vexed me till I was mad, that 
I wtnt into a little land of graves, and there wept ; for my sorrow was 
deep unto darkness, and I could not win friendship by friendship, nor 
love (though it still loved me) but in heaven — for it w is purer than 
the pure air, and had floated up to God. And I sat down upon a 
tombstone with my unburied grief, and wondered what that earth 
contained of joy, and misery, and triumph long past, and pride lower 
than nettles, and how old love was joined to love again, and hate was 
gone to h .te. For there were many monuments with sunshine on ont 
side and shade on the other, like life and death, with black frowning 
letters upon their white brii^ht faces; and throii;_;h those letters one 
miuht hear the dead speaking silently and slow, for th^re was much 
meaning in those words, and mysteries which long thought could not 
fithom. Aiid there was dust upon those flat dwtllings, which 1 kissed, 
for lips like it were there, and eyes where much love had been, and 
checks that had warmed the sunshine. But the dust was gone in a 
bieath, and so were they ; and the wind brou:jht shadows that parsed 
and passed incessantly over that land of graves, which you might 
strive to stay, but could not, even as the dead had passed away and 
been missed in the after bri:_;htness. 

Thus I buried my thoughts with the dead ; and as I sat, uncoft' 

• London Magazine, Dec. 1822. 



It PRESEXTIME.XT, 

sciously, I lieanl the sound of young sweet voices, and, locking up, 1 
saw two little children coming up the path. The lamas lilted up theil 
heads as they passed and gazed, but fed again without stirrin'4, fol 
there was nothing to fear from such innocmt looki and so gentle 
voices ; there was even a mel .ncholy in their tone which does not 
belong to childhood. The eldest w.is a >oung boy, very fair and 
gentle, with a little hand linked to iiis ; and, by h;.i talk, it seemed that 
he had broir^ht his sister to show her where her poor father lay, and 
to talk about Death. Their lips seemed too rosy and tender to 
utter his dreadful n:ime — but the word wns empty to them, and un- 
menning as the sound of a shell — for tliey knew hmi not, that he had 
kissed them before they were born or breath-jd, and would again when 
the time came. So they appro.iche'd, dew-dabbled, and struggling 
through the long-tangled weeds to a new grave, and stood before it, 
and gazed on its record, like the ignorant sheep, without reading. 
They did not see their father, but only a little mound of earth, with 
strange grass and weeds ; and they looked and looked again, and at 
each other, with whispers in their eyes, and listened, till the flowers 
dropped from their forgotten hands. And when I saw how rosy they 
were in that black, which only made them the more rosy, and their 
bri;^ht curly hair, that had no proud hand to part it, I thought of the 
yearnings of disembodied love and invisible agony that had no voice, 
till meihou<;ht their father's spirit passed into mme, and burned, and 
gazed thiouL;h my e>es upon his children. Thev had not yet seemed 
to mtice me, but only that silent gr.ive ; and, lookin,' more and more 
sadly, their eyes filled with large tears, and iheir lips drooped, and 
their heads sunk so mournfully and so comfortless, that my own grief 
rushed into my eves and hid them from me. And I said inwardly, I 
will be their fatlier, and wipe their blue eyes, and win their sorrowful 
cheeks into dimples, for they are very fair and young — too young for 
this stormy life. I will watch them through the wide world, for it is 
a cruel place, where the tendercst are most torn because they are 
tenderest, and the most beautiful are most blighted. Therefore this 
little one shill be my dau_;hter, that I may gather her for heaven as 
my best deed upon earth ; and this young boy shall be my son, to 
share my blessing when I die, that God in that time may so deal with 
my own oftspring. For I feel a mis:-;i\ing that 1 shall soon die, and 
that my own little ones will come to my grave and weep over me, 
even as these poor orphans. Oh ! how shall I leave them to the care 
of the careless — to the advice of the winds — to the home of the 
wide world ? And as I thought of this, the full tears dropped 
from mv eyes, and I saw again the two children. They were stdl 
there and wecjung ; but ?s I looked at them more earnestly, 1 per- 
ceived that they were altered, or my siglit changed, so that I knew 
their faces. I knew them — for I had seen them in very infancy, and 
through all their growth — in sickness when I pra\ed over fheni — 
and in slumber when I had watched over them till I almost wept, 
thev were so beautiful ! I had kissed, how often ! those very 
cheeks, blushing my own blood, and had breathed blessin:,;s upon 
their glossy brows, and had piessed their litile hands in ecstasies '^i 
anxious love. They also knew me ; but there was an older grief \x. 



PRESENTIMENT. I7 

their looks than had ever been : — and why had they come to me in 
that place, and in black, so sad and so speechless, and with flowers 
so withering ? but tliey only shook their heads and wept. Then I 
trembled exceedingly, and stretched out my arms to embrace them, 
but there was nothing between me and the tombstone where they had 
seemed : yet they still gazed at me from behind it, and further and 
still further as I followed, till they stood upon the verge of the church- 
yard. Then I saw, in the sunshine, that they were shadowless ; and, 
as they raised their hands in the light, that no blood was in them ; 
and as I moved still closer, they slowly turned into trees, and hills, 
and pale blue sky, that had been in the distance. Still I gazed where 
they had been, and the sky seemed full of them ; but there were only 
clouds, and the shadows on the earth were merely shadows, and 
the rustling was the rustling of the sheep. I saw them no more. 
They were gone from me, as if for ever ; but I knew that this was 
my warning, and wept, for it came to me through my own children 
in all its bitterness. I felt that I should leave them as I had fore- 
told — their hearts, and lips, and sweet voices, to one another, to be 
their own comfort ; for I knew that such grief is prophetic of grief, 
and that angels so minister to man, and that Death thus converses 
in spirit with his elect. So I spread my arms to the world in 
farewell, and weaned my eyes from all things that had been pleasant 
on the earth, and would be so after me, and prepared myself for her 
ready bosom. And I said, " Now 1 will go home and kiss my children 
before I die, and put a life's love into my last hour ; for I must 
hasten while my thoughts are with me, lest I madden, and perhaps 
wrong them in my delirium, and spurn their sorrowful love, and 
curse them, instead of blessing, with a fierce stran;4e voice." Thus 
I hurried towards them faster and faster till I ran ; but as my desire 
increased, my strength failed me, so that I wished for my death-bed, 
and threw myself down on a green hill, under the shade of trees 
that almost hid the sky with their intricate branches. And as I lay, 
the thought of death came over me as death, with a deep gloom like 
the shade of a darkened chamber, and blinded me to the trees, and 
the sky, and the grass, that were round me. But a pale light came, as 
I thought, through the pierced shutters, and I saw by it strange and 
familiar faces full of grief, and eyes that watched mine for the last 
look, and tiptoe figures gliding silently with clasped hands — and a 
woman that chafed my feet ; and as she seemed to chafe them, she 
turned to shake her head, and tears gushed into all eyes as if they had 
been one, so that I seemed drowned, and could see nothing except 
their shadows in the light of my own spirit. In that moment I heard 
the cries of my own children, calling to me fainter and fainter, as if 
they died and I could not save them ; an.l 1 tried to stay them, but my 
tongue was lifeless in my mouth, and my breath seemed locked up in 
my bosom : and 1 thought, " Surely I now die, and the last of my soul 
is in my ears, for I still liear, though I see not ; " but the voices were 
soon drowned in a noise like the rushing of waters, for the blood was 
struggling througii my heart, slower and slower, till it stopped, and I 
turned so cold, that 1 felt the burning of the air upon me, and the 
scalding of unknown tears. Yet for a moment the light returned t<> 

B 



X8 PRESENTIMENT. 

me, with those mourners — for they were already in black, even the!f 
faces ; but they turned darker and darker, and whirled round into ont 
shade till it was utterly dark : and as my breath went forth, the air 
pressed heavy upon me, so that I seemed buried, and in my deep 
grave, and suffering the pain of worms till I was all consumed and no 
more conscious. Thus I lay for unknown time, and without thought ; 
and again awakening, I saw a dark tigure bending over me, and felt 
him grasp me till I ached in all my bones. Then I asked him if he 
was Death or an an.i;el, and if he had brought me wings? for I could 
not see plainly ; but as my senses returned, I knew an intimate friend 
and neighbour, and recognised the sound of his voice. He had thus 
found me, he said, in passing, and had seen me faint, and had 
recovered me ; but not till he had almost wrung the blood from my 
fingers ; and he inquired the cause of my distress. So I thanked him, 
and told him of my vision, and he tried to comfort me : but I knew 
that the angels of my children had told me truly, and the more so for 
this shadow of Death that I had passed ; and feeling that my hour 
was near, and recollecting my home, I endeavoured to rise. But 
my strength was gone, and I fell backwards ; till fear, which had first 
taken away my strenj^th, restored it tenfold, and I descended the hill, 
and hurried onwards before my friend, who could not keep up with me. 

When I had gone a little way, however, the road was of deep sand, 
so that I grew impatient of my steps, and wished for the speed of 
a horse that I heard galloping before me. Even as I heard it, the 
horse suddenly turned an anglo of the road, and came running with 
all the madness of fright, plunging and scattering the loose sand from 
his fiery heels. As he came nearer, I thought 1 saw a rider upon his 
back — it was only fancy ; but he looked like Death, and very terrible, 
for I knew that he was coming to tear me and trample me under his 
horse's hoofs, and carry me away for ever, so that 1 should never see 
my children again. At that thought my soul fainted within me with- 
out his touch, and my breath went from me, so that I could not stir 
even from Death, though he came nearer and nearer, and I could see 
him frown through the black tossing mane. In a moment he was 
close ; the wild foaming horse struck at me with his furious heels — so 
♦hat the loose sand flew up in my bosom — reared his head disdain- 
fully, and flew past me with the rush of a whirlwmd. The fiend 
grinned upon me as he passed, and tossed his arms in an ecstasy of 
triumph ; but he left me untouched, and the noise soon died away 
behind me. Then a warm joy trembled over my limbs, and I hurried 
forward again with an hour's hope of life. My heart's beat quickened 
my feet, and I soon reached the corner where I had first seen the 
horse ; but there I stopped — it was only a low moan — but my heart 
stopped with it. In another throb I was with my children, and in 
another — they were with God. I saw heir eyes before they closed — • 
but my son's 

How it happened I have never asked, or have forgotten. I only 
know that I had children, and that they are dead. Now I have only 
tneir angels. They still visit me in the churchyard ; but their eyes 
are closed, and their little locks drop blood — ihey still shrink, aufl 
faint, and fade away — but still i die not ! Incog. 



MR MARTIN'S PICTURES, ETC. 



ME MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS* 

A LETTER FROM MRS WINIFRED LLOYD TO HER FRIEND MRS PRICE, AT 
THE PARSONAGE HOUSE AT , IN MONMOUTHSHIRE. 

MY DEAR MRS PRICE, — This is to let you know that me 
and liiecky and little Humphry are safe arrived in London, 
where we have been since Monday. My darter is quite inchnnted 
with the metropalus and lon;^s to be intraduced to it satiety, which 
please God she shall be as soon as things are ready to make her de- 
butt in. It is high time now she should be brought into the world 
being twenty years old cum Midsummer and very big for her size. You 
knows, Mrs Price, that with her figure and accumplishments she was 
quite berried in Wales, but I hopes when the country is scowered off 
she will shine as bright as the best and make a rare havoc aitiong 
the mail sex. She has larned the pinaforte and to draw, and docs 
lowers and shells, as Mr Owen says, to a mirrikle, for I spares no 
munny on her to make her fit for any gentleman's wife, when he shall 
please to ax her. I took her the other day to the Bullock's Museum 
to see Mr Martin's expedition of })icters — because she has such a 
pretty notion of painting herself — and a very nice site it was, thof it 
cost half-a-crown. I tried to get the children in for half-price but the 
man said that Becky was a full-grown Ldy, and so she is sure enuff, so 
I could only beat him down to take a sixpence off little Humphry. 

The picters are hung in a parler up-stairs (Becky calls it a drawing- 
room) and you see about a dozen for your munny which brings it to 
about a penny a piece, and that is not dear. The first on the left hand 
as you go in — and on the right coming out — is called Revenge. It 
reperesents a man and woman with a fire breaking out at their backs — 
Becky thought it was the fire of London — but the show gentleman said 
It was Troy that was burned out of revenge, so that v\as a very good 
thought to paint. Then there was Bellshazzer's Feast as you read ot 
it in the Bible, with Daniel interrupting the handwriting on the wall — 
with the cunning men and the king and all the nobility. Becky said she 
never saw such bevvtiful painting — and sure enufT they were the finest 
cullers I overset eyes on, blews and pmks, and purples and greens all as 
bright as fresh sattin and velvet, and no doubt they had court sutes all 
span new for the Banket. As for Humphry there was no getting him 
from a picter of the Welsh Bard because he knew the ballad about it 
and saw the whole core of Captain Edwards's sogers coming down the 
hill, with their waggin train and all, quite natural. To be sure their 
cullers were very bewtiful, but there was so many mountings piled atop 
of one another and some going out of sight into heaven that it made 
my neck ake to look after them. Next to that there was a storm in 
Babylon, t but not half so well painted, Becky said, as the rest. There 
was none hardly of those smart bright culler's, only a bunch of flowers 

* London Magazine, May 1S22. 

t The Storming of Babylon : Mrs Lloyd mus* have gjt her catalogue b^ 
kearsay. 



so MR MARTIN'S PICTURES, ETC. 

in a garden, that Becky said would look bewtiful on a chaney teacupi 
Howsomever some gentlemen looked at it a long while and called it 
clever and said thev prefeared his architecter work to his pamtin^; and 
he makes very handsum bildings for sartain. They said too that this 
pictcr was quieter tlian all the rest — but how that can he, God he 
Icnows, for I could not hear a pin's difference betwixt them — and be- 
sides that it was in better keeping which I suppose means it is sold to 
a Lord. The next was only a lady very well dressed and walking in a 
landskip. But oh, Mrs Price, how shall I tell you about the burning 
of Herculeum ! Becky said it put her in mind of what is written in 
the Revealations about the sky being turned to blood, and indeed it 
seemed to take all the culler out of her face when she looked at it. It 
looked as if all the world was going to be burnt to death with a shower 
of live coals ! Oh dear ! to see the poor things running about in sich an 
earthquack as threw the pillers off their legs — and all the men of war 
in distress, beating their bottoms, and going to rack and ruin in the 
arbour! It is a shocking site to see only in a picter, with so many 
people in silks and sattins and velvets having their things so scorched 
and burnt into holes ! Oh Mrs Price ! what a mercy we was not born 
in Vesuvus and there are no burning mountings in Wales I — only 
think to be holding our sheelds over our heads to keep off the hot 
sindcrs, and almost suffercated to death with brimstun. It puts one 
in a shiver to think of it. 

There is another picter of a burning mounting with Zadok* hang- 
ing upon a rock — Becky knows the story and shall tell it you — but it 
looked nothing after the other, though the criketal gentlemen you 
knows of, said it was a much better painting. But there is no saying 
for people's ta-tes — as Mr Owen says, the world does not dine upon 
one dinner — but I have forgot one more, and that is Mac Beth and the 
three Whiches, with such a rigiment of Hilander^ that I wonder how 
they got into one picter. Becky says the band ought to be playing bag 
Pipes instead of Kittle drums, but no doubt Mr Martin knows better 
than Becky, and I am sure from what I have heard in the North that 
either Kittles or Drums would sound better than bag Pipes. 

We are going to-morrow to the play, and any other sites we may see 
you shall hear. Till then give my respective complements to Mr Price 
with a kiss from Becky and Humphry and remane, 

Your faithful huml^le servant 

Winifred Lloyd. 

P.S. — I forgot to say that after we had seen Mr Martins expedition, 
we went from the Bullock's to the lionassus— as it is but a step from 
wan to the other. The man says' it is a perfect picter, and so it is for 
sartain and ought to be painted. It is like a bull, only quite different, 
and cums from the Appellation Mountings. My Humphry thought 
it must have been catcht in a pound, and I wundered the child could 
make sich a nateral idear, but he is a sweet boy and very foreward in 
his larning. He was esely delited at the site you may be sure, but 
Becky being timorsome shut her eyes all the time she was seeing it. 

* Mrs Lloyd means Sadak, in the "Tales of the Genii." 



THE TWO SWANS. St^ 

But saving his pushing now and then, the anymil Is no ways veracious 

and eats nothing but vegeatables. The man shov\ed us some outland- 
ish sort of pees that it hves upon but he give it two hole pales of rare 
carrots besides. It must be a handsum customer to the green Grocer 
and a pretty penny 1 warrant it costs for vittles. But it is a wondi^r- 
ful work of Natur, and ought to make man look to his ways as Mr 
Lloyd says. Which of our infiddles could make a Pionassus, let them 
tell me that, Mrs Price! I would have carried him home in my eye to 
describe to you and Mr Price, but we met Mrs Striker the butcher's 
lady and she drove him quite out of mv head. Howsomever as you 
likes curosities I shall send his playbill that knows more about him 
than I do, though there's nothing like seeing him with wan's own eyes. 
I think if the man would take him down to Monmouth in a carry van 
he would get a good many hapence by showing him. Till then I re* 
mane once more Your faithful humble sarvant 

Winifred Lloyd, 



THE TWO SWANS. 

A FAIRY TALE.* 

Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above 
The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear 
A fairy dream in honour oi true love — 
True above ills, and fr.iilty, and all fear- 
Perchance a shadow of his own career 
"Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long twined 
By serpent-sorrow, till wliite Love drew near, 
And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind 
A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind. 

I saw a tower builded on a lake, 
Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep- 
That seem'd a still intenser night to make, 
Wherein the quiet waters sunk to sleep, — 
And, whatsoe'er was prison'd in that keep, 
A monstrous Snake was warden : — round and round 
In sable ringlets I beheld him creep, 
Blackest amid black shadows, to the ground, 
Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crown'd t 

From whence he shot fierce light a'Siainst the stars, 
Making the pale moon paler with affrii^ht ; 
And with his ruby eye out-threaten d Mars — 
That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright-^ 
Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite 

• New Monthly Magazine, 1824. 



THE TWO SWANS. 

Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies ; 

And that be might not slumber in the n ght, 
The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his 1 ircje eyes, 
So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. 

Prince or princess in dismal durance pent, 
Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate. 
Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, 
Watching the lonely waters soon and hite. 
And clouds that pass nnd leave them to their fate^ 
Or company their grief with heavy tears : — 
Meanwhile that Hope can s!)y no golden gate 
For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears 
They weep and pine away as if immortal years. 

No gentle bird with gold upon its wing 
Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird 
Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring 
Freedom's sweet keynote and commission-word 
Learn'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirr'd — 
Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest 1 
Watch'd by th..t cruel Snake and darkly heard. 
He leave a widow on her lonely nest. 
To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. 

No gallant knight, adventiirous, in his bark. 
Will seek the fruitful perils of the place. 
To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark 
That bear that serpent-image on their face. 
And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the bas^ 
Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win 
His captive lady from the strict embrace 
Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within 
His sable folds — like Eve enthrall'd by the old Sin, 

But there is none — no knight in panoply, 
Nor Love, entrench'd in his strong steely coat: 
No little speck — no sail— no hslper nigh, 
No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat :— 
The distant shores show dimly and remote, 
Made of a deeper mist, — serene and grey, — 
And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float 
Over the gloomy wave, and pass away, 
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play. 

And bright and silvery the willows sleep 

Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease 

Their hoary heads ; but quietly they weep 

Their sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half tree* 1 

There lilies be — and fairer than all these, 



THE TWO SWANS. J9 

A solitary Swnn her breast ot snow 
Launches against the wave that seems to freeze 
Into a chaste reriection, still below, 
Twin-shadow of herself wherever she may go. 

And forth she paddles in the very noon 
Of solemn midnight, hke an elfin thing 
Charm'd into being by the argent moon— 
Whose silver light for love of her fair wing 
Goes with her in the shade, still worbhipping 
Her dainty plumage : — all around her grew 
A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring ; 
And all behind, a tiny little clue 
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue. 

And sure she is no meaner than a fay 
Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake^ 
By old ordainment : — silent as she lay, 
Touch'd by a moonlight wand I saw her wake^ 
And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake 
The verdant prison of her lily peers. 
That slept amidst the stars upon the lake— 
A breathing shape — restored to human fears, 
And new-born love and grief — self-conscious of her teart 

And now she clasps her wings around her hearty 
And near that lonely isle begins to glide, 
Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start 
Turns her impatient head from side to side 
In universal terrors — all too wide 
To watch ; and often to that marble keep 
Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied 
Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep 
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. 

And well she may, to spy that fearful thing 
All down the dusky walls in circlets wound ; 
Alas ! for what rare prize, with many a ring 
Girdmg the marble casket round and round? 
His folded tail, lost in the .yloom profound, 
Terribly darkeneth the rocky base ; 
But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd 
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face 
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red w atchers of the placft 

Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, 

No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, 

So he mny never see beneath the wall 

That timid little creature, all too bright, 

That stretches her fair neck, slender and white^ 



THR TtVO SWAINS. 

Invokin^^ the pale moon, and vainly tries 
Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night 
With song — but, hush — it perishes in sighs, 
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies! 

She droops — she sinks — she leans upon the lake, 
Fainting again into a lifeless flower ; 
But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake 
Her spirit from its death, and with new power 
She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower 
Of tender song, timed to her falling tears— 
That wins the sh.tdy summit of that tower, 
And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears, 
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's earSk 

And, lo ! the scaly beast is all deprest, 
Subdued like Argus by the might of sound— 
What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest 
To magic converse with the air, and bound 
The many monster eves, all slumber-drown'd ^— « 
So on the turret-top that watchful Snake 
Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, 
As if his wrathful spite would never wake, 
Charmed into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sakel 

His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, 
And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, 
To drink that dainty flood of music down— 
His scaly throat is big with pent-up si;_;hs— 
And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, 
His looks for envy of the charmed sense 
Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, 
Stung into pain by their own impotence. 
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense^ 

Oh, tuneful Swan ! oh, melancholy bird ! 
Sweet was that midnight miracle of song. 
Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word 
To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong- 
Hinting a piteous tale — perchance how long 
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, 
What time disguised thy leafy mates among — 
And no eye knew what human love and ache 
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to brealt 

Therefore no poet will ungently touch 

The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew 

Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such 

As human pain may wander through and through, 

Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue — 



THE TWO SWANS. 

Wherein life dwells, transfii^ured, not entomb'd, 
By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew 
Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and [jlumed, 
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed ? 

And now the winged song has scaled the height 
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, 
And soon ;i little casement flashing bright 
Widens self-open'd into the cool air — 
That music like a bird may enter there 
And soothe the captive in his stony c.ige ; 
For there is nought of grief, or painful care, 
But plaintive song may happily engage 
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage: 

And forth into the light, small and remote, 
A creature, like the fair son of a king, 
Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat 
Against the silver moonliuht glistening, 
And leans upon his white hand listening 
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone 
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing 
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan. 
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone I 

And while he listens, the mysterious song, 
Woven with timid particles of speech, 
Twines into passionate words that grieve along 
The melancholy notes, and softly teach 
The secrets of true love, — that trembling reach 
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun 
He missions like replies, and each to each 
Their silver voices mingle into one. 
Like blended streams that make one music as they run. 

" Ah Love ! my hope is swooning in my heart." — 
" Av, sweet ! my cage is strong and hung full high."- 
" Alas ! our lips are held so far apart. 
Thy words come faint, — they have so far to fly !"— 
** If I may only shun that serpent-eye ! " — 
" Ah me ! that serpent-eye doth never sleep." — 
" Then nearer thee, Love's maityr, I will die !"— 
" Alas, alas ! that word has made me weep ! 
For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep !" 

" My mnrble keep ! it is my marble tomb ! " — 

" Nay, sweet ! but thou hast there thy living breath".- 

** Ave to expend in sii^hs for this hard doom." — 

" 5ut I will come to thee and sing beneath, 

And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath."— 



THE TWO SWANS. 

** Nay, I will find a path from these despairs." — • 
*' Ah ! needs then thou miist tre.id fJe back of death, 
Makinf^ his stony ribs thy stony st.nrs ? — 
Bthold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares !" 

Full sudden at these words, the princely youth 
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still 
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth, 
But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill 
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill 
For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay- 
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, 
Held some short throbs by natural dismay, 
Then down, down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. 

Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight, 
Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall ; 
Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, 
And clinging wiih wide arms for fear of fall? 
Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall 
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; 
Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small, 
Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below, 
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. 

But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace 
The iTiarble wails about — which he must tread 
Before his anxious foot nia\ tt)uch the base : 
Long is the dreary oath, and must be sped ! 
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, 
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil 
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread. 
Impatient plunges from the last long coil : 
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil 1 

The song is husli'd, the charm is all complete. 
And two f.iir Swans are swimming on the lake ! 
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet. 
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake— 
His steely scales a fearful rustling make. 
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell 
The sable storm ; — the plumy lovers quake— 
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, 
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer felL 

His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, 

Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eves glare 

The waters into blood— his eager breatii 

Grows hot upon their plumes : — now, minstrel fair I 

She drops her ring into the waves, and there 



PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 

It widens all around, a fairy ring 
Wrought of the silver light— the fearful pair 
Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling 
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. 

Bending their course over the pale grey lake, 
Against the pallid East, wherein light jdI ly'd 
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake 
Circled them round continually, and bay'd 
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade 
The sanctuary ring : his sable mail 
RoU'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made 
A shining track over the waters pale, 
Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous talL 

And so they sail'd into the distance dim, 
Into the very distance — small and white, 
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim 
Over the brooklets — foUow'd by the spite 
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright 
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy. 
Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light, 
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy, 
Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy ! 

Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers 
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes 
Te.irs are no grief; and from his rosy bowers 
The Oriental sun began to rise, 
Cnasing the darksome shadows from the skies ; 
Wherewith that sable Serpent far auay 
Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs 
From waking blossoms purified the day, 
And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM 
ACADEMY* 

Ah me ! those old familiar V)Ounds ! 
Th.ii cl.issic house, these classic L;round3( 

My pensive thought recalls ! 
Wh.ct tender urchms row confine, 
Wh.it little captives now repine. 

Within yon irksome walls? 

* I^iew iMoiiiiily i\Jag;i/,ine, 1824. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 

Ay, that's the very house ! I know 
Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! 

Its chimneys in the rear ! 
And there's the iron rod so hi£:;h, 
That drew the thunder from the sky, 

And turn'd our table-beer ! 

There I was birch'd ! there I was bredl 
There hke a little Adam ffd 

From Learning's woful tree ! 
The we.ry tasks I used to con ! — • 
The hopeless leaves I wept uron ! — 

Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 

The summon'd class ! — the aweful bow !— 
I wonder who is master now 

And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
How many ushers now employs, 
How many maids to see the boys 

Have nothing in their heads ! 

And Mrs S ?— Doth she abet 

(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 

Some favour'd two or three, — 
The little Crichtons of the hour, 
Her muffin-medals that devour. 

And swill her prize — Bohea ? 

Ay, there's the playground ! there's the Hme^ 
B'-neath whose shade in summer's prime 

So wildly I have read ! — 
Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 

Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 

Who struts the Randall of the walk ? 
Who models tmy heads in chalk? 

■ Who scoops the light canoe ? 
What early genius buds apace ? 
Where's Povnter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? 
Hal Bayli's ? blithe Carew ? 

Alack! they're gone — a thousand ways! 
And some are serving in " the Greys," 

And some have perish'd young ! — 
Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
Hal Baylis arives the ivayie ot life ; 

And blithe Carew — is hung ! 



OF CLAP HAM A CA DEMY, 

Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
To savages at Owh\ ee i 

Poor Chase is with the worms !— 
All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — ' 
New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 

*'And push us from onx forms I " 

Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
And leap, and skip, and mob about, 

At pUiy where we have play'd ! 
Some hop, some run (some fall), some twino 
Their crony arms ; some in the shine,— 

And some are in the shade ! 

Lo ! there what mix'd conditions run I 
The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 

And Fortune's favour'd care — 
The wealthy born, for whom she hatll 
Mac- Adam ised the future path — 

The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 

Some brightly starr'd — some evil bom,— 
For honour some, and some for scorn, — 

For fair or foul renown ! 
Good, bad, indifferent — none may lack ! 
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black! 

And there's a Creole brown ! 

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weet% 
And wish their " frugal sires would keep 

Their only sons at home ; " — 
Some tease the future tense, and plan 
The full-grown doings of the man, 

And pant for years to come ! — 

A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop; 
And four TxKjivesl and five who stoop 

The marble taw to speed ! 
And one that curvets in and out, 
Reigning his fellow Cob about,— 

Would I were in his steedl 



Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
That boyish harness off, to swop 

With this world's heavy van 
To tttil, to tug. O Utile fool ! 
W hile thou canst be a horse at schooJj 

To wish to be a man ! 



ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, 

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
To wear a crown, — to be a king ! 

And sleep on regal down ! 
Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares; 
Far happier is thy head that wears 

That hat without a crown ! 

And dost thou think that years acquire 
New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 

More happy than his son ? 
That manhood's mirth? — Oh, go thy ways 
To Drury Lane when plays., 

And see hovt forced our fun 1 

Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare I— 
Our tops are spun with coils of care, 

Our dumps are no delight ! — 
The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
And 'tis at best a sorry game 

To fly the Muse's kite ! 

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead. 
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead. 

Like balls with no rebound ! 
And often with a faded eye 
We look behind, and send a sigh 

Towards that merry ground 1 

Then be contented. Thou hast got 
The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 

There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — 
Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 

A sorry breaking-up I 



ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE^ 

ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT.* 
•"Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." — Giaour. 

Oh, Mr Cross ! 
Permit a sorry stranger to draw near, 

And slied a tear 
(I've shed my shilling) for thy recent loss 1 

I've been a visitor 
Of old — a sort of a Buflon inquisitor 

* New Moulhly Magazine, I026, 



OF EXETER CHANGE. 3I 

Of thy menagerie, and knew the beast 

That is decensed ! 

I was the Damon of the gentle giant, 
And oft have been, 
Like Mr Kean, 

Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant. 

Wlienever I approach'd, the kindly brute 

Flapp'd his prodigious ears, and bent his knees- 
It makes me freeze 

To think of it ! No chums could better suit. 

Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit,— 

For so our former dearness was begun. — 

I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled 

The beast of his affection like a child ; 

And well he loved me till his life was done 
(Except when he was wild). 

It makes me blush for human friends — but none 

I have so truly kept or cheaply won 1 



Here is his pen ! 

The casket — but the jewel is away I 
The den is rifled of its denizen, — 

Ah, well-a-day ! 
This fresh free air breathes nothing of his groJsnesSj 
And sets me sighing even for its closeness. 

This light one-storey. 
Where like a cloud I used to feast my eyes on 
The grandeur of his Titan-like horizon. 
Tells a dark tale of its departt^d glory ; — 
The very beasts lament the change like me. 

The shaggy Bison 
Leaneth his head dejected on his knee ; 
1 he Hyaena's laugh is hushed ; the Monkey's pout J 
The Wild Cat frets in a complaining whine ; 
The Panther paces restlessly about, 

To walk her sorrow out ; 
The Lions in a deeper bass repine ; 
The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short forcpaws ; 

Shrieks come from the Macaws j 
The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head, 

And pineth for the dead; 
The Boa writhes into a double knot ; 

The Keeper groans 

Whilst sawing bones. 
And looks askance at the deserted spot } 
Brutal and rational lament his loss, 
The flower of thy beastly family ! — 

Poor Mrs Cross 
Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea, 

And weakens her Bohea I 



fi ADDRESS TO MR CROSS. 

Oh, Mr Cross, how httle it gives birth . cnam -f' 
To grief when human greatness goes to earth ; 

How itv/ lament for Czars !— 
But, oh, the universal heart o'erflow'd 

At his " high mass," 

Lighted by gas, 
When, like Mark Antony, the keeper show'd 

The Elephantine scars ! — 

Reporters' eyes 

Were of an egg-Hke size ; 
Men that had never wept for murder'd Marrs I 
Hard-hearted editors, with iron faces. 

Their sluices all unclosed, — 

And discomposed 
Compositors went fretting to their cases ! — 

That grief has left its traces ; 
The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer 

With sheer regret ; 

And the Gazette 
Seems flie least trouble of the beast's Purveyor ! 

And I too weep ! a dozen of great men 
I could have spared without a single tear ; 

But then 
They are renewable from year to year ! 
Fresh Gents would rise though Gent resign'd the pen 5 

I should not wholly 

Despair for six months of another C , 

Nor, though F lay on his small bier, 

Be melancholy. 
But when will such an elephant appear? 
Though Penley were destroy'd at Drury Lan^ 

His like might come again ; 

Fate might supply 
A second Powell, if the first should die ; 
Another Bennet, if the sire were snalch'd ; 

Barnes — might lie match'd ; 

And Time till up the gap 
Were Parsloe laid upon the green earth's lap ; 
Even Claremont might be equall'd, — I could hope 
(All human greatness is, alas, so puny !^ 
For other Egcrtons — another Pope, 

But not another Chuneel 



Well ! he is dead ! 

And there's a gap in Nature of eleven 

Feet high by seven — 
Five living tons!— and I remain--niiie stone 

Of skin and bone ! 



ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ, 33 

It is enough to make me shake my head 

And drea'm of the ;^r.ivc"s brink — • 

'Tis worse to think 
How like the Beast's the sorry life I've led ! — 

A sort of show 
Of my poor public self and my sapacity, 

To profit the rapacity 
Of certain folks in Paternoster Row, 
A slavish toil to v/in an upper storey — 

And a hard glory 
Of wooden beams about my weary brow I 

Oh, Mr C. ! 
If ever you behold me twirl my pen 
To earn a public supper, that is, eat 

In the b.ire street, — 
Or turn about their literary den — 

Shoot 7ne I 



ejiua oA 
ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.^ 

BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN 

Ah me ! what causes such complaining breath, 

Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow? 
It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death, 
For laying Laing low ! 
From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe— 
A shrill and persevering loud lament, 
Echoed by Mrs T.'s Establishment 

"For Six Young Ladies, 
In a retired and healthy part of Kent." 

All weeping, Mr L gone down to Hades ! 

Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil! 
Surrey takes up the tale. 
And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones, 
With the two parlour-boarders and th' apprentice — 
So universal this mis-timed event is — 

Are joining sobs and groans ! 
The shock confounds all hymeneal planners, 

And drives the sweetest from iheir sweet behaviours. 
The girls at Manor House fort^et their manners, 

And utter sighs like paviours ! 
Down — down through Devon and the distant shires 

Tra^els the news of Death's remorseless ci.me ; 
And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires 
Of matches against time ! 

* Literary Gazette, August 4, 1827. 



}4 ELEGY ON DAVID LAIXG, ESQ, 

Alonsz the northern route 
The road is water'd by postilions' eyes ; 

Tlie topboot paces pensively about, 
And yellow jackets are all stain'd with siL;hat 
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship, 
And sorry hands are wringing at the Bell, 

In aid of David's knell. 
The postboy's heart is cracking — not his whi|>-» 

To gaze upon those useless empty collars 
His wayworn horses seem so glad to slip — 

And think upon the dollars 
That used to urge his gallop — quicker ! quicker I 

All hope is fled. 

For Laing is dead — 
Vicar of Wakefield — Edward Gibbon's vicar ! 

The barristers shed tears 
Enough to feed a snipe Csnipes live on suction). 

To think in after years 
No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction. 

Nor knaves inveigle 
Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal ; 

The dull reporters 
Look truly sad and seriously solemn 

To lose the future cohimn 
On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters ! 

But srave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood 
Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau — 

That never real beau of flesh and blood 
Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambatid. 



Sleep — David Laing ! — sleep 
In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee ! 
Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep. 

And honest postboys mourn thee I 
Sleep, David ! — safely and serenely sleep, 

Be-wept of many a learned le-al eye ! 
To see the mould above thee in a heap 

Drowns many a lid thai hen toiore w,,s dr,' !- 
Especially of those that, plunging deep 

In love, would " ride and tie I " 
Had I command, thou should'st have gone tl.y ways 
In chaise and pair — and lain in P^re-la-Chaise I 



STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 3S 

STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, 

OF HASTINGS.* 

Tom ; — are you still within this land 
Of livers — still on Hastings' sand, 

Or roaming on the waves ? 
Or has some billow o'er you roll'd, 
Jealous that earth should lap so bold 

A seaman in her graves ? 

On land the rushlight lives of men 
Go out but slowly ; nine in ten, 

By tedious long decline — 
Not so the jolly Scdlor sinks, 
Who founders in the wave, and drinks 

The apoplectic brine ! 

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head 
Is sleeping on an oyster-bed — - 

I hope 'tis far from truth ! — 
With periwinkle eyes ; — your bone 
Beset with mussels, not your own. 

And corals at your tooth I 

Still does the ' Chance ' pursue the chancs 
The m.iin affords — the ' Aidant' dance 

In safety on the tide ? 
Still flies that siyn of my good-will— 
A little bimting thing — but still 

To thee a flag of pride ? 

Does that hard, honest hand now clasp 
The tiller in its careful grasp — 

With every summer breeze 
W^hen ladies sail, in lady-fear — 
Or tug the oar, a gondolier 

On smooth Macadam seas ? 

Or are you where the flounders keep, 
Some dozen briny fathoms deep. 

Where sand and shells abound — 
With some old Triton on your chest. 
And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest. 

To find that you are — drown'd? 

• Literary Souvenir, 1828. 



$i STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 

Swift is the wave, and apt to brintj 
A sudden doom : perchance I sing 

A mere funereal strain ; 
You have endured the utter strife — 
And are — the same m death or life— 

A good man in the main ! 

Oh, no ! — I hope the old brown eye 
Still watches ebb and flood and sky ; 

That still the brown old shoes 
Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed !— 
Your tooth still full of ocean weed, 

Or Indian — which you choose, 

I like you, Tom ! and in these lays 
Give honest worth its honest praise, 

No puff at honour's cost; 
For though you met these words of min^ 
All letter-learning was a line 

You, somehow, never cross'd 1 

Mayhap we ne'er shall meet again, 
Except on that Pacific main 

Beyond this planet's brink ; 
Yet, as we erst have braved the weather 
Still may we float awhile together, 

As comrades on this ink J 

Many a scudding gale we've had 
Together, and, my gdiant lad, 

Some perils we have pass'd ; 
When huge and black tlie wave career'd^ 
And oft the giant surge appeai-'d 

The master of our mast : — 

Twas thy example taught me how 
To climb the billow's ho.iry brow. 

Or cleave the raging heap — - 
To bound along the ocean wild. 
With danger — only as a child 

The waters rock'd to sleep. 

Oh, who can tell that brave delight. 
To see the hissing wave in niigiu 

Come rampant like a snake ! 
To leap his horrid crest, and feast 
One's eyes upon the briny beast, 

Left couchant in the wake ! 



STANZAS TO TOM IVOODGATE. 

The simple shepherd's love is still 
To bask upon a sunny hill, 

The herdsman ro;ims the vale — ■ 
With both their f.mcies I agree; 
Be mine the swelling, scooping sea, 

That is both hill and dale ! 



I yearn for that brisk spray — I yearn 
To feel the wave from stem to stern 

Uplift the plunging keel ; 
Th.it merry step we used to dance 
On board the ' Aidant ' or the ' Chance^* 

The ocean " toe and heel." 



I long to feel the steady gale 

That fills the broad distended sail — 

The seas on either hand ! 
My thought, like any hollow shell, 
Keeps mocking at my ear the swell 

Of waves against the land. 

It is no fable — that old strain 
Of sirens ! — so the witching main 

Is sinking — and I sigh ! 
My heart is all at once inclined 
To seaw;ird— and I seem to hnd 

The waters in my eye ! 

Methinks I see the shining bench ; 
The merry waves, each alter each, 

Rebounding o'er the flints ; 
I spy the grim preventive spy ! 
The jolly boatmen standing nigh ! 
The maids in morning chintz I 

And there they float — the sailing crafkl 
The sail is up — the wmd abaft — 

The ballast trim and neat. 
Alas ! 'tis all a dream — a lie ! 
A printer's imp is standing by, 

To haul my mizen sheet ! 

My tiller dwindles to a pen — 
My craft is that of bookish men— 

My sale -let Longman tell! 
Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray! 
Men — maidens— chintzes— fade awaj i 

Tom Woodgate, hire thee well ! 



!? A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 

A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 

FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE, IN MARCH [82 1.* 

"The son of Coi-nelius shall make his own legs his compasses with those 
he shall measure continents, islands, capes, bays, straits, and ischmuses." — 
Memoirs of Martinus ScHolerus. 

<' T SHOULD very much like to travel," s:iid a young cockney, ^it'i 

1 his feet on the fender. " London is a vast place ; but the world 
is ten times bigger, and no doubt a many strange things are to be seen 
in it." 

"And pray, young man," said an old gentleman, whom he called the 
philosopher, " pray, are you so fi miliar vvnh the features of your own 
country ; are you so well acquainted with its men and manners, that 
you must go out of it for matter of investigation and speculation .'*" 

"As for men," replied the cockney, " we may see them anywhere. 
I've seen Crib and Spring, and the best good ones that ever peel'd ; 
and as for manners, I learned them at the dancing-school. I have not 
been all over England, to be sure, like my father's ridc^rs ; but I've 
been to Margate, Brighton, and Moulsey Hurst ; so tnat what I have 
not seen by sack I have seen by sample. Besides, London is the very 
focus of England ; and sure I am that I know it from Wapping to 
Hyde Park Corner, and have seen all that is instnirtive in it. I've 
been up the Monument, and down St Paul's, over the Bridges, and 
under the Tunnel. I've seen the King and Court, Mrs Salmon's royal 
waxwork too, and the wild beasts at E.xeter 'Change ; — I've seen Drury 
Lane and Covent Garden playhouses, besides the Houses of Lords and 
Commons — the Soho Bazaar, and both Bartk*my Fair and the Brighton 
Pavilion. I never missed a Lord Mayor's show, nor anything that is 
worth seeing ; and I know by sight Lord Castlerea.;h, Jack Ketch, Sir 
William Curtis, Billy Waters, and many other public and distinguished 
characters.'' 

"If you have seen no more than ynu say," said the philosopher, 
"you have seen a gre tt deal more than is Knglish ; and if you only 
wish to study mankind, it is at least a reason a*,ainst your leaving the 
country. England has, to be sure, its national character ; but it gives 
birth to many mongrel-^, who belong rather to the Spanish, Dutch, or 
otner breeds : there are foreigners born here, as well as others who 
visit us ; and why should we go al)road to study them, when we have 
them all in epitome at home? Different nations, like different men, 
are only com ounds of the same ingredients, but in varied propor- 
tions. We shall find knaves and honest men in every state, and a 
large prop irtion of fools and dunces in them all. We >hall find every- 
where the same passions, the same virtues and vices, but altered in 
their proportions by the influences of education, laws, and religion ; 
which in some parts tend to invaove, and, in others, to pervert the 
common nature of mankind. 

• London Magazine, November 1821. 



ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. JJT 

*It is in their civil and religious institutions that we are to look foi 

the L^rand causes effecung those distinctions which constitute nntional 
character ; but before we go to investigate them, we should at least 
understand a little of our own." 

" Pshaw ! " said the cockney, \\ ho began to grow tired of this har- 
angue ; " there are siyhts to be seen abroad which can't be brought 
over here, and as for men being the same all the world over, it's all 
my eye ; — a'n't there the Hottentots thnt h.ive noses like your pug's, and 
heads as black and woully as my poodle's ? A'n't the Frenchmen all 
skinny, and haven't the Spaniards larue whiskers ? There are the 
Patagonians, too, that are as big as tlie Irish giant, and Laplanders no 
bigger than Miss What's-her-name, the dwart !" 

*' Pshaw!" said the i^hilosopher in his turn ; " all these are minor dis- 
tinctions, and shrink, as it were, to nothing when compared with the 
immeasurable dist.inccs between the minds of men : whether 1 be 
Knglishman or Hottentot, a Laplander or a Patagonian,— 

'If I could stretch from pole to pole, 

And grasp the ocean in a span, 
I must be measured by my soul : 

The mind's the standard of the man.' 

There is, no doubt, a considerable difiference between a Hottentot's 
nose and my own, which, as you observe, is a fine Roman one and 
very like Cjesai-'s ; but there is, I flatter myself, a much greater difier- 
ence between our understandings. The first is only a ditierence in the 
conformation of matter, but the last is a gradation in mind, which, to 
speak in common language, is the most material matter of the two." 

Here tlie Cockney was quite out of patience. " He did not care," he 
said, "about mind and matter; and as to the difference of men's 
minds, why men would differ, but he meant to be of his own mind, 
and the philosopher mi:^ht be of his ;" and so they parted. 

As I was present at this conversation, it occurred to me that if men 
wre so much alike everywhere, or rather, if every soil produced tne 
same varieties, I could see as much of them in a walk throu;4h the 
populous streets of London as in a hasty journey all over the Conti- 
nent. Oh ! I will not travel, said L for, in the first place, it's unneces- 
sary ; and secondly, I do not feel equal to its fatigues iuid danijers ; 
and lastly, said I (for we alwa\s get to the true reason at last), I can't 
afford it. Besides, I had not seen Waterloo Bridge ; and we ought to 
see our own bridges before we go to see the bridges of others. A 
traveller, said I, should have all his wits aljout him, and so wdl I. He 
should let nothing escape him, no more will I. He should extract re- 
flections out of a cabbage stump, like sun'Deams squeezed out of 
cucumbers ; so will I, if I can ; and he should converse with every 
and any one, e^'en a fishwoman. Perhaps I will, and perhaps I will 
not, said 1. Who knows but I may make a sentimental journey, as 
good as St' me s ; but at any rate I can write it, and send it to the 
London Mag.izine. 

I had hardlv left the threshold of my door, ere I met, as I thought, 
with an adventure. I had just reached that ancient and grotesque 
house which is said to have been a summer seat of Queen Elizabeth, 



40 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 

though now in the centre of the village, or rather town of Islington, 
when I observed that tlie steps which led down to the door had becomti 
the seat, or rather the courh, of an unfortunate female. She had, like 
Sterne's Maria, her dog and her pipe^ and like her, too, she was evi- 
dently beside herself. " Poor unfortunate and interesting Maria," said 
I, as she came into my mind, ex;ictlv as Sierne had drawn her. I had 
touched a string — at the name of Maria, the female for the first time 
raised her head, and I caught ;. glance at her uncommon countenance. 
The rose had not fled from it, nor the bloom, for this was damson, 
and that was damask ; there was a fixedness in her gaze, and aUlioiigh 
she quickly turned her head away, she could not hide from me that 
she had a drop in her eye. " It won't do," said I, shaking my head. 
"M.'tria found Sterne's handkerchief, and washed it with tears, and 
dried it in her bosom ; but if I lose mine here, it's ten to one if I see 
it again ; and if this Maria should wet it with her eyes, methinks it 
would dry V'jcst again at her nose. There is nothing to sympathise with 
in her bewilderment — she's rather bewitched than bevv itching— she's 
a dry subject ;" and so I left her. My eyes, however, were full charged 
with the tears, and my bosom with the sighs, which I had expected to 
mingle with those of the supposed unforLunate. Some sentimentalists 
would have vented them upon the first dead dog or lame chicken they 
might meet with, but I held them too valuable to be wasted upon 
sucii objects. I hate the weeping-willow set, who v/ill cry over their 
pu'^'-dogs and canaries, till they have no tears to spare for the real 
children of misfortune and misery ; but sensibility is tou scarce, and 
too valuable, not to be often imitated; and these, therefore, are the 
ways in which they advertise their counterfeit drops. They should be 
punished like any other impostors, and they might be made of some 
use to society at the same time; for as other convicts are set to beat 
hemp, and pick oakum, so I would set these to perform funerals, and 
to chop onions. These reflections, and the incidents which gave rise 
to them, I resolved to treasure up, for they would perhaps have their 
use in some part of my journey. 

They will warn me against being too sentimental, said I. In the 
■first place, it's ridiculous ; secondly, it's useless ; and lastly, it's incon- 
venient ; for I just recollect that there's a very large hole in my pocket- 
handkerchief. These reflections brought me into Colebrook Row, or 
rather into a heap of mud that stood at the end of it, for street reveries 
are very subject to such sudden terminatiuns. They say that English- 
men have a rusticity about them that only rubs otT liy a little travel ; 
but that must certainly be erroneous, for I had hardly gone a quarter 
of a mile, ere 1 lost, in the mudding of my boots, the little all of 
polish that I wore about me. Barring the first agony of mortification, 
I bore it, however, with uncommon fortitude, for I knew that travellers 
must expect to meet, as I did, with sad and serious accidents. There 
passed, however, a young gentleman in very tigiit trotler-cases, but 
whilst his feet gave evident signs of suffering, I observed that his 
countenance was calm, vacant, and stoical. Pshaw, s.dd I, if he can 
bear his pinches so well, I may surely put up with my splashes; this 
pain of mine exists only in imagination, whereas his poor feet, like 
Shakespeare's stricken deer, '• distend their leathern coats almost to 



ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 4I 

bursting.*' What a felicity there is in a happy application of words! 
1 was so pleased with the resemblance which 1 discovered between 
the foot of a dandy and a stricken deer, that I quite lur^ot uiy vexa- 
tion and its cause. I found, as I thouLjht, that I had a genius i'or apt 
quotations, and resolved not to be sparing of them; they would give 
to my travels an air of great learning; and if learning be better than 
riches, there would be no more harm in showing it thus than in pulling 
out a large purse, as some do, to give a poor beggar a halipenny. 

" Give a poor beggar a halfpenny," said a man, as if he had heard 
and echoed the last part of my thought. 

The City Road was excessively dirty, but he had swept a cleaner 
passage over it, and as I trod across his little track of Terra Firma, I 
dropped the merited coin into his hat, for I saw he had only half-a- 
crown in it. "Thank your honour," said he, looking full in my face, 
and then looking down upon my bo>its, he thanked me a^ain, and still 
more emphatically. " It is very true," said I, entering into his feeling — 
" it's very true — and if I too had looked upon my boots, you probably 
had not had it." 

He thought, no doubt, with certain philosophers, that man's main- 
spring is selfishness, and perhaps he was not quite wrong ; but at all 
events to decide it, I resolved to watch his customers and analyse his 
profits. "A plague take the fellow! " said an uid gentleman, whom he 
had hunted fifty paces for a halfpenny, "you ought to be reported to 
the Mendicity Society." He gave it to him, to get rid of his importunity, 
thought I. He would have kept his halfpenny by walking a little 
faster, but he walks very lame, poor old gentleman, and that perhaps 
makes him pettish. The next halfpenny he got from a lady, who had 
walked a long way down the road to avail herself of his labour. It 
was rather for her upper leather's than her soul's sake, said I ; and 
as for that old lady that followed her, I can read in his face that she 
has given him a pocket-piece ; hut they all go in charity, as it is called ; 
and I have learned, by the by, what to do with a forged or flash note. 
As nobody else seemed inclined to give him anything, I summed up 
my calculations: one-third had given from inconvenience, and one- 
third for convenience, and the rest, or the pocket-piece, was the gift of 
pure charity. We may say of charity, as " Hamlet Travestied " doi s of 
death — that it's truly a tine thing to talk of We all preach it — we all 
praise and admire, but when we come to the practice of it, we " leave 
that to men of more learning ; " and are as careful of our pence as of 
our lives, when we find they've no chance of returning. I had hardly 
ended these uncharitable reflections, when I was obliged to retract 
and repent them. I had begun to read a very conspicuous hand-bill 
which was posted on some palings near Sadler's Wells, and invited the 
admirers of fisticuffs to a grand sparring benefit at the Fives Court. 
But I had hardly got farther than the noble science of self-defence, when 
it was for the most part eclipsed by a new hand-bill, fresh from the pole 
of the bill-sticker; and altogether, they then appe.ired as follows: — 
To the Fancy- — on such a day — a Sermon will be preached by such a 
Bishop at such a church, for the benefit of such a charity — and as a 
little piece of the other bill expressed at the bottom ihdiX. real t^ood ones 
were expected, I -pplied it of course to the, exclusion of pocket-pieces. 



4» A SEN7IMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 

I had a fresh subject besides in this piece of wafrgery of the bill 
sticker's, which had atiorded ni':^ no little ei.tert.iinnient. Shakespeare 
w, IS right, and so was the j^hilosopher, in my estimation ; for 1 s.iw 
that what they h id r-presented was correct, that certain characters 
are confined to no cl iss, condition, nor country. We may meet with 
dull pedagogues and authors, and with sensible clowns and witty 
bill-stickers ; and I doubt not that we shall as readily meet with 
blunt Frenchmen, with shuffling Englishmen, and honest and brave 
Italians. I met with no other incident worth relating or reflecting 
upon, till I came to a public-house near Lady Huntingdon';: Chapel, 
and there I met with matter of interest and amusemein, inasmuch as 
it involved a question upon national and domestic government. 

It was no less than a qu irrd between a man and his wife, who had 
just ejected him from his seat in the parlour; and the argument was, not 
whether he should go there at .dl, but whether he should go there with- 
out her permission hrst soui^ht and obtained. There were not wanting 
auxiliaries and allies upon each side, and there were as many advocates 
for tiie rii;hts of woman as there were supporters of the doctrine ot the 
free-will of man. There was, besides, a third party, composed . hiefly 
of young persons, perhaps spinsters and bachelors, who, by siding 
sometimes with one and sometimes the other, seemed inclined to 
provoke the opposing parties to a general combat. It was evident 
from the clamour of the females, and from the swearing of the men, 
that the argument, if such it mi;^ht be called, would never arrive at 
any legitimate conclusion ; and taking advantage therefore ot a 
f;eneral pause, the effect of exhausted ra.Lje, I wis induced to offer 
my aid as a mediator between the two s.xes. Now, it so happens, 
that when persons are angry or ridiculous, they like to make parties 
of all the spectators ; and as I had taken no part in the fray, but had 
been strictly neutral, the proposal \vas generally agreed to; especially 
as I had the appearance of one of the meek among men. Getting 
therefore upon one of the benches, I slretciied forth my hand, and 
proceeded as follows : — 

" Ladies and gentlemen, the question which you have referred to 
me is of the greatest importance, not only to me, but to you,— not 
only to you, but to all the world. 

" It requires to know which of the sexes was born for dominion — 
\\hether wum m should rule ('or man should be ruled,' said an Irish- 
man). It not only questions whether wife should rule husb >nd, or 
husband rule wife— but also if Queens should ascend the throne, or 
if Kings should sit upon it ; for whichever may be unht to command 
a family must be equally unqualified to govern a nation." The con- 
clusion of this sentence was followed by shouts of applause from both 
parties, each applying to the other the unfitness to which I alluded. 
" If," said I, " we may judge from a law which exists and has existed, 
1 should say that the softer sex are unqualiiied for the thrones, from 
wluch by that very law they stand excluded." Here 1 was obliged to 
bow to the applause of my male hearers, and also to the ladies, in 
order to avoid the force of a flying patten. 

" But there is one circumstance," I continued, " and it certainly 
goes strongly against such a conclusion ; — 1 mean that in ihaj 



ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 43 

instnnce the men were the law-makers." Here again I hr.d to bow 
to the ladies, and duck to the gentlemen. " I will say, morc-ncr, that 
if we refer to the history of a nition where that law was unknown, we 
shall find that the reigns of two thirds of her Queens have been happy 
or glorious. (Loud applause from the females.) 

" This fact, however, goes no farther in support of this side of the 
question than the Salic law on the other ; for allowing that the sway 
of those Queens was so sweot and splendid, yet we must remember, 
that they governed by their ministers, and conquered by their generals 
and admirals. (Cheers from the men.) If we trace still farther back in 
history, even unto the days of Saul and David, and if we find a frequent 
mention of Kings, and of their being anointed, what then shall we say 
ot this question, if we find in the whole course o{ that history, no in- 
stance of an anointed Queen? (Hisses and grooms from the ladifs.) 
If such be the fact, what shall we infer from it, but that there were 
no priestesses? (Shouts and lau;4hter frotn the ladies.) But why h..d 
they no priestesses ? I must confess that I am unable to answer. 
(Cheers from the males ) I will now con-ider the other branch of the 
subject ; for although it is evident that those who are unfit to rule 
families must be unqualified to govern kingdoms, yet it does not follow, 
therefore, that those who are unable to govern kingdoms are unequal 
to the lighter task of governing a family. There are many very 
worthy women whom 1 should be loth to trust with a sceptre, but 
they sway the domestic rod with vigour and success — (hear ! from the 
men) ; — and there are also many men of a ditTerent stamp, of indolent 
or profligate characters, whose aftairs thrive best, or would thrive 
better, under the guidance of their wives. (Hear ! from the women.) 
We know, too, that there are others who have willingly resigned to 
their wives the control of their purse, and the direction of their alTairs ; 
convinced, by experience, that they were the best merchants, the best 
accountants, and the best orators. (Hear, hear! from the ladies.) 
Upon these grounds we may assign the right of dominion to the 
female sex — (screams of ai plause from the women, and groans from 
the men); — I say, upon these grounds we may assign the right of 
dominion to the female sex (ihe same tumult repeated). I say (said 
I, raising my voice), I say that upon these grounds we may assign the 
right of dominion to the female sex, provided that the whole, or the 
gre aer portion of men, may be supjiosed iiile, profligate, or the most 
ignorant. But I must conkss, and 1 do it with .11 sincerity, that this 
would appear to me to be a most unhandsome, most uncharit ble, 
and unjust estimate. (Shouts from the men, and hissts from the ladies.) 

" How, then, shall we decide this great question, seeing that the 
trial by laattle is by Parliament abolished ? It may be ruled from 
precedent, or rather the want of it, that the fem.ile sex be excluded 
Irom the sovereignty and the priesthood, tmt their claims to domestic 
dominion are as yet uncontroverted — (cheers from the ladies) .— 
and as yet unestablished. (Cheers from the gentlemen.) There onlj 
remains, in my opinion, a middle course to pursue : 

• Let all agree, — let none engros the sway, 
But each command by tuiiis, .and cnch obey.' 



I4t A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 

Let the lady be paramount in the kitchen and the nursery, and abso- 
lute in the garrets. Let the gentleman be king in his parlour, and 
emperor in his study ; and as for the nr:iwin;,r-room and the garden, let 
their sway there be divided. Let her be n judge in fa-hions, m novels, 
and in nil f.incy articles ; and let him decide on pilitics, on liquors, 
and on horse-flesh. As for all other matters of argument, let them be 
considered as drawn battles at draughts ; and finally, let each sex con- 
sider itself as bound to the other by an alliance offensive and defen- 
sive." The conclusion of this my oration was followed by very general 
cries of applause, which were the more gratifying, when I considered 
the difficulty of pleasing all parties in a concern of so much interest to 
each. Nor was that my only reward, fcr I received I know not iiow 
many invitations to partake of porter, gin, and punch, all of which I 
declined, alleging that I wished to go straightway to Waterloo Bridge 
• — at least, as much as it wns possible to do so, by Gray's Inn Lane, 
Chancery Lane, and the Strand. 1 had just reached the middle of 
Elm Street, when I was alarmed by loud and piercing screams, and as 
a carriage had r.ipidly turned the corner, I feared that some unfortu- 
nate human being had been run over. There is something in the 
shrill cry of a female in distress that irresistibly impels and wings 
one to her succour. I flew up the hill— turned the corner, and beheld 
at my feet a poor swine, which was screaming under the repeated 
lashes of a ruffian drover. She had sunk down, apparently from ex- 
haustion, in the middle of the kennel, and as she started and kicked 
under the bloodthirstv thont;, her struggles and sphnshings were truly 
shocking. Aged — and a female — exposed to insult, cruelty, and indig- 
nity — her grunts so like groans, and her squeaks so like screams — - 
it was impossible for humanity to look on and be passive. I straddled 
over the unfortunate sow, and internosed my bodv betwixt her and her 
tormentor; and had it been at the ribk of irnmokition, my feelings 
could not have allowed me to shrink from it. I should have died a 
glorious martyr to humanity ! 1 protected the innocent, and I did 
more, for I threatened to chastise her oppressor ; and I should certainly 
have done so with his own whip, if I could only have wrested it from 
him. However, I accepted the brute's challenge to fight ; and here I 
must say, that upon any other occasion, I should have deemed it dis- 
graceful and ungentlemanly ; but in such a cause, as the champion of 
humanit)', the guardian of the brute creation, I thought it not only 
gentlemanly, but angelic ; and I felt that I was quite in my duiy when 
1 folded up my new coat and confided it to the care of a decent sh< p- 
kceper. We exchanged only a few blows, and it I did not thrash him 
heartily, he owed it to my humanity ; for it was merely from a reluct- 
ance to end in blood what I hid l.'cgun in tears, that I so speedily de- 
ciined the combat. The ;:.pectators indeed did not seem to enter into 
iny feeling ; but whip me the man who would not prefer the praise of 
mercy to the meed of victory ! Besides, I considered it a sin, a kind 
of profanation, to mar and disfigure " the human face divine," and one 
of us, at least, was handsome. 

I did not, however, resign the cause or interests of the poor ;ow, 
but slipping a crown into the hand of the dro\er, I recommended her 
to his mercy as a man and a Christian. " Coax htr," said 1 ; '* call her 



ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 45 

3r run before her, and entice her with a cabbage-leaf — do anything 
but whip her so cruelly. And now," I continued, addressing myself 
to the bvstanders, amongst whom were some very well-dressed ladies 
and gentlemen, *' now let me impress upon your memories one very 
great error as regards pig-driving. A pig will run this way and thnt, 
and any way, perhaps, but the right one ; but it is uncharitable and 
cruel to attribute to obstinacy what may onh originate in an over- 
anxiety to please. I have seen a pig run backward, and forward, 
and sideways, and if it had been possible to run a dozen ways at 
once, I verily believe it would h ive done it." 

The sow got up, the crowd dispersed, and I pursued my journey. It 
afterwards struck me that I heard at a di-^tance the same shrill, 
humanlike, and persevering screams ; but it might be fancy, for I be- 
lieve they will ring in my ears as often as I pass the corner of Elm 
Street, Gray's Inn Lane. Gray's Inn Lane, by the by, is not, as I 
conjecture, the true name of it ; the ancient appellation must have 
been anything but what it now bears — perhaps Crazing Latte, because, 
ere it was built upon, the cattle used to graze in it. 

Be that as it may, there is nothing farther to remark of Gray's Inn 
Lane,, but that it brings one into Holborn. 

Hence, and through Chancery Lane, I amused myself by speculat- 
ing on the faces of the passengers. It's a study I'm very fond of, and 
if I am in anything superstitious, it is in the signs and forebodings of 
the countenance. Who cannot trace in the face of a dandy the circu- 
lation of his two ideas, — his opinion of himself and others ; and who 
is there that mistakes the keen eye of a genius ? 

But it is Temper that writes the most legible hand in the counte- 
nance ; and it is easy therefore to distinguish, amongst a crowd, the 
pet lamb of his mother, the tyrant of his family, and the humble ser- 
vant of his wife. " There's that man," said I, looking at a gentleman 
who was standing on the edge of the pavement — " his curled lip indi- 
cates his pride ; but I know by the very restlessness of his eye that 
he's afraid of bailiffs. As for that man who has just passed, I would 
•'not live with such a temper for my board and lodging. That lady's 
mask is handsome ; but I must say with the fox, ' Cerebrum non 
■habet ; ' and her little girl'sdoU has more wit in her one eye than shehas 
in two." My judgments, however, were not always fortunate : the man 
with restless eyes was only looking for his poodle dog ; and as the 
cross-looking man went soon afterwards into a cook-shop. I supposed 
that he had been rather hungered than ill-natured. As for the lady 
and the child, I don't know whether I set them down ri'j:htly or not, 
but in the meantime I will suppose so, and cling to my studv. I was 
now in the Strand, close to Temple Bar ; and from hence to Waterloo 
Bridge, I calculated would be the journey of an hour. Who is there 
that can walk along this, or any of the principal City streets, without 
admiring the number of elegant shops, and the still more elegant and 
wonderful productions which they contain .'' they are to me the sources 
of the greatest pleasure ; and when time will permit me to do so, I in- 
spect them from the goldsmith's and jeweller's, down to the humbler 
repositories of the tinman and brazier. Nay, I have been caught, and 
rallied by my acquaintance for looking in lovingly at the ha.berd asher's 
and milliner's. 



4tf A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 

It is not th.'it I am merely smitten with the be:nuty of their articlri 
that I look into them with such admiration and delight, but it \% 
because I can there trace an evident and prugre-sive improvement in 
the arts and manufactures of my country. This affords me a delight 
in which all ought to sympathise, and that calls forth an admiration in 
which all must participate. Whether we examine those paintings and 
prints, which are more strictly termed works of art ; whether we examine 
those fabrics which have b-.-en produced by the most comphcited 
machinery, or those minor articles wliich are the work of the handi- 
craftsm.in, we shall find that there prevails in all a deL;ree of taste which 
can only be the result of a general cultivation of mind. It is this that 
has led to so many ingenious inventions, and has tended above all to 
promote the general alliance between elegance and utility ; and when 
we contemplate the mighty effects of its progress hitherto, who can 
calculate its future attainments .'' Long may it continue its mighty 
march, to the honour and happiness of my countrymen ; and may they, 
in better days, obtain for their industry and ingenuity those rewards 
which hitherto have not kept pace with their merits. May they still 
travel onwards in the path of improvement, and surmounting all 
obstacles which a meaner ambition would plant in their way, reach 
that point of excellence and perfection to which man in this world may 
be destined to attain ! Here a bookseller's shop gave a new turn to my 
speculations. We are certainly a reading people, I thought, as I looked 
in at the window ; but I would fain know if this culiivation of the mind 
conduces to happiness. I was inclined to decide in the affirmative ; 
for the collection before me sug_;ested the names of Shakespeare, 
Addison, Milton, and a host of other authors, linked with a thousand 
delightful reminiscences. Much must depend upon one's course of 
reading, said I, still running over the titles : — A Sermon to Sinne — • 
The Foole's Jest Book — Dialoi^ues of the Dead — Life in London — Tom- 
linens Sea Worthies — The I\'ewgate Calendar — Cato's Letter to the 
Country — The King's Reply to his People — PVordes to the IVyse — 
Witte's Crony kill — A New Spelling Book. But what have we here? 
It happened very stningely, I might almost say miraculously, that I 
read a solution of my speculation in a book before me. It was called 
'J he Prayse of Ignorance ; and in the two grave-looking brown-com- 
plexioned pages that lay open, I read as follows : — 

" Hee was made to bee h^ippye but not learned : for eating of the 
Tree of Knowledge hee was caste out of Paradyse. Hys was the Blisse 
of Ignorance ; but We being born to bee learned, and unhappye withall, 
have noght but the Ignorance of Blisse. Soe we aske not which bee 
the most happye ; but which bee the leeste unhappye : and trulye hee 
hath leeste Paines that hath not most Bokes. Hee is your Berksinre 
or Hampshire manne with a harde Head and a long Stomack — which 
is a Ho^ge amongst Wittes, but a Witte amongst Hog::;es ; and when 
hee sLepes you wot not which can grunte loudeste. For why ? Hee 
beares no care on hys Head : excepte hys Hatte, and that hee hath 
not much care withal except a-Sundayes. One maye rede in hys 
Vysage that he wots not to write: but he maketh hys Marke and soe 
hath one to ten chancs against th. CJallowes. Hys Haire is un- 
kempte ; and soe is hys Ir-tellecte ; but betwixt buth hee saveth a 



ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. ^ 

World of Trouble. Hys Head itches : it doth not ake^ It. is^ as 

emptye as a drye Bowie; but hys Belly is crammede to the fulle— tor 
hee is no author. 

" You maye write him downe a Manne with an Idea : but hee is more 
blessede than anye with two ; for hee hath nonne of their fevtnshe 
Deliriums. How can hys Minde wander.^ 

" Now look you to your Scliollar. He cryes in hys verye Birthe, tor 
hee is stryped into hys ABC; most of hys Wordes doe end in O, and 
hys Whyppinges have many Syllables. Hee hateth his Boke fiiile 
sore : and noe Marvel ! For hee wotteth to the Sorrowe of hys Bottom, 
that Learning is at the Bo'tom of hys Sorrowe. There is a natural! 
Hyphen betwixt them. A connexion of Minde and Matter. One 
Cometh not without the other, and hee curseth them both in hys Waye. 
Hys Grammar bringes him freshe annoye : for hee onlye weepeth in 
another Tense. But hee gets the Interjections by Harte. Figures are 
a great Greefe unto him ; and or.lye multiplie hys Paines. I'he dead 
Tongues doe brinj^e him a lively sorrowe : hee gets them at hys Fingers 
endes. And soe hee waxeth in Growth ; into a Quarto or Folio, as 
maye bee ; a greater Bulke of Learning and Heavinesse ; and belike 
hee goeth madde with Study overmuch. Alsoe hee betaketh him to 
write ; and letts hys Braines be suckede forthe through a Quill. If hee 
seeke to get Monneye hys Boke is unsolrie ; and if hee wolde have of 
the Worlde's Fame hee is praysde of those that studye not hys Rimes: 
or is bcornde and mockede of those that will not understande hys Con- 
ceitcs, which is a greate SorroM'e ; for roesie hath made hys Harte 
tender, and a little Worde is a greate Paine. Soe he c;etts no Sub- 
stance, but looses Fleshe. Lnstlye hee dyeth a pitiful! Death ; the 
kindly Creditour of an unkindlye Worlde ; and then hee is weepede 
for ; and it is askde, ' Why will hee not write again ?' 

" And the Parishe Clarke hys witte sufficeth to hys Epitaph, which 
runnes : — 

* Alake ! alake ! tlint Studye colde not save 
eoe great a Witte out of so small a grave. 
But Learning must decaye, and Letters both, 
And Studye too. Death is a dreadfull Goih, 
Which sparelh nonne.' " 

Unfortunately, I could neither read further, nor turn over the leaf 
through the glass ; and still more unfortunately, I did not go in and 
purchase the book. However, I had read enough to lead me to a 
decision, that the ignorant are the most happy ; and as I walked away 
from the window I repeated the lines : — 

" No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
'Tis folly to "be wise." 

As this was the second great question that T had decided, I walked 
onward to Waterloo Bridge, without any doubt of being able to deter- 
mine the third, viz., as to the merits and demerits of the bridge and 
its architect. But here an unforeseen difficulty presented itself; for 
<.wing to the lateness of my arrival, and the sudden fall of a verv 



4* A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, ETC. 

dense fog, I was unable to do anything more than determine to come 
again. 

I accordir.gly walked back into the Strand, and finding a stage ?.*. 
Somerset House, I took my seat in it, and turned towards home. I 
had three travelling companions, two males and one female ; and after 
we had discussed the usual topics, and paid the usual compliments, 
the conversation dwindled away into a profound silei'ice ; I therefore 
employed myself in the arrangement of my travels, and in recollecting 
the various incidents and reflections to which they had given rise. 

I must request, Mr Editor, your utmost indulgence towards one so 
inexperienced as a traveller, and if you should find that the style of 
my narration is rugged and uneven, and that the incidents and reflec- 
tions are abrupt and unconnected, I beg that you will attribute it to 
tne unpleasant jolting of the stage, and the frequent interruptions and 
Stoppages that it met with. INCOG 



ODES AND ADDRESSES 

TO 

GREAT PEOPLE. 

'Catcluos«n the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities, anc the littlenesses of consctoi 
greatness by the way." — Ciiizen of the World, 

[First published 1825.] 

ODE TO MR GRAHAM, THE AERONA UT, 

• Up with me I— up with me into the sky I " 

— WoKDSwoKTH : On a LttrkI 



Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd. 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

Their meaner fli;.;hts pursue, 
Let us cast off the foolish ties 
That bind us to the earth, and ria« 

And take a bird's-eye view 1— 

IL 

A few more whiffs of my cigar, 
And then, in Fancy's airy car, 

Have with thee for the skies : — 
How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd 
Hath borne me from this little world. 

And all that in it lies ! — 

III. 

Away ! — away ! — the bubble fills — . 
Farewell to earth and all its hills !— 

We seem to cut the wind ! — 
So high we mount, so swift we go, 
The chimney-tops are far below, 

The Eagle's left behind !— 



TO MR GRAHAM. 



IV. 



Ah me ! my brain begins to swim !»«»• 
The world is growing rather dim ; 

The steeples and the trees — 
My wife is getting very small ! 
I cannot see my babe at all ! — 

The Dollond, if you please !— 

V. 

Do, Graham, let me have a quiz. 
Lord ! what a Lilliput it is, 

That little world of Mogg's ! — 
Are those the London Docks? — that chann«5 
The mighty Thnmes ? — a proper kennel 

For that small Isle of Dogs ! — 

VI. 

What is that seeming tea-urn there? 
That fairy dome, St Paul's ! — I swear, 

Wren must have been a Wren ! — 
And that small stripe ? — it cannot be 
The City Road ! — Good lack ! to see 

The little ways of men 1 

VII. 

Little, indeed ! — my eyeballs ache 
To find a turnpike. — I must take 

Their tolls upon mv trust ! — 
And where is mortal labour gone? 
Look, Graham, for a little stone 

MacAdamized to dust ! 

VIII. 

Look at the horses !— less than flies !^ 
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs 

To wish to be a Mayor ! 
What is the honour? — none at all ; 
One's honour must be very small 

For such a civic chair ! — 

IX. 

And there's Guildhall ! — 'tis far aloof— 
Methinks I fancy, thro' the roof, 

Its little guardian Gogs, 
Like penny dolls — a tiny show !— > 
Well, — I must say they're ruled belovr 

By very little logs ! — 



TO MR GRAHAM. 



X. 



O Graham ! how the upper air 
Alters the standards of compare ; 

One of our silken flags 
Would cover London all about. 
Nay then — let's even empty out 

Another brace of bags 1 

XI. 

Now for a glass of bright champagne 
Above the clouds ! — Come, let us "drain 

A bumper as we go ! — 
But hold 1 for God's sake do not cant 
The cork away — unless you want 

To brain your friends below. 

XII. 

Think ! what a mob of little men 
Are crawling just within our ken, 

Like mites upon a cheese ! — 
Pshaw ! how the foolish slight rebukes 
Ambitious thoughts ! — can there be DukeS 

Of Gloster such as these ? 

XIII. 

Oh ! what is glory? — what is fame? 
Hark to the little mob's acclaim — 

'Tis nothing but a hum ! — 
A few near gnats would trump as loud 
As all the shouting of a crowd 

That has so far to come 1 — 

XIV. 

Well — they are wise that choose the near, 
A few small buzzards in the ear, 

To organs ages hence ! — 
Ah me ! how distance touches all ; 
It makes the true look rather small. 

But murders poor pretence. 

XV. 

•The world recedes ! — it disappears ! 
Heav'n opens on my eyes — my ears 

With buzzing noises ring !" — 
A fig for Souther's Laureate lore ! — 
What's Rogers here?— Who cares for Moore, 

That hears the Angels sing ? — 



TO MR GRAHAM, 



XVI. 



A fig for earth, and all its minions .'— 
We are nbove the world's opinions, 

Graliam ! we'll have our own ! — 
Look what a vantasje height we've got !-^ 
Now do you think Sir Walter Scott 

Is such a Great Unknown ? 

XVII. 

Speak up, — or hath he hid his name 
To crawl thro' " subways " unto fame, 

Like Williams of Cornhill ? — 
Speak up, my lad ! — when men run smatt 
We'll show what's little in them all, 

Receive it how they will ! — 

XVIII. 

Think now of Irving ! — shall he preach 
The princes down ? — shall he impeacll 

The potent and the rich, 
Merely on ethic stilts, — and I 
Not moralise at two miles high, 

The true didactic pitch ? 

XIX. 

Come, — what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? 
Is Gifford such a Gulliver 

In Lillipui's Review, 
That like Colossus he should stride 
Certain small brazen inches wide 

For poets to pass through ? 

XX. 

Look down ! the world is but a spot. 
Now say — Is Blackwood's low or not. 

For all the Scottish tone ? 
It shall not weigh us here — not where 
The sandy burden's lost in air — 

Our lading— where is't flown ? 

XXL 

Now, — like you Croly's verse indeed— 
In heaven — where one cannot read 

The " Warren " on a wall ? 
What think you here of th.it man's fame? 
Tho' Jerdan magnified his name, 

To me 'tis very small ! 



TO MR GRAHAM, J3 



XXII. 

And, truly, is there such a spell 
In those three letters, L. E. L., 

To witch a world with song ? 
On clouds the Byron did not sit, 
Yet dared on Shakespeare's head to spit, 

And say the world was wrong ! 

XXIII. 

And shall not we ? Let's think aloud 1 
Thus being couch'd u()on a cloud, 

Graham, we'll have our e\es ! 
We felt the great when we were lcs9^ 
But we'll retort on littleness 

Now we are in the skies. 

XXIV. 

Graham, Graham ! how I blame 
The bastard blush, the petty shame, 

That used to fret me quite, — 
The little sores I cover'd then ! — 
No sores on earth, nor sorrov\s wheo 

The world is out of sight I 

XXV. 

My name is Tims. — I am the man 
That North's unseen diminish'd clan 
So scurvily abused ! 

1 am the very P, A. Z. 

The London's Lion's small pin's head 
So often hath refused 1 

XXVI. 

Campbell— (you cannot see him here)— 
Hath scorn'd my lays :—Ao iiis appear 

Such great e;4gs from the sky ? 
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.— 
Long, only, in a little Row, — 

Have thrust my poems by ! 

XXVII. 

What else ? — I'm poor, and much beset 
With damn'd small duns — that is, in debt 

Some grains of golden dust ! 
But only worth above is worth. — 
What's all the credit of the earth ? — 

An inch of cloth on trust ! 



TO MR GRAHAM. 



XXVI 11. 



What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man f 
Nay, worlds of wealth ? — Oh, if you can, 

Spy out, — the Golden Ball ! 
Sure, as we rose all money sank : 
What's gold or silver now ? — the Uatik 

Is gone — the 'Change and all ! 

XXIX. 

What's all the ground-rent of the globe ?— 

Graham ! it would worry Job 
To hear its landlords prate ! 

But after this survey, I think 
I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink 
From men of large estate ! 

XXX. 

And less, still less, will I submit 
To poor mean acres' worth of wit— 
I that have heaven's span — 

1 that like Shakespeare's self may dream 
Beyond the very clouds, and seem 

An Universal Man ! 

XXXI. 

O Graham ! mark those gorgeous crowds ! 
Like Birds of Paradise the clouds 

Are winging on the wind ! 
But what is grander than their range, 
More lovely than their sunset change?— 

The free creative mind ! 

XXXII. 

Well ! the Adult's School's in the air! 
The greatest men are lesson'd there 

As well as the Lessee ! 
Oh, could earth's Ellistons, thus small. 
Behold the greatest stage of all, 

How humbled they would be ! 

XXXIII. 

** Oh, would some god the giftie gie 'em. 
To see themselves as others see 'em," 

'Twould much abate their fuss ! 
if they could think that from the skies 
They are as little in our eyes 

As they can think of us ! 



TO MRS FRY, |} 



XXXIV. 

Of us ! are we gone out of sight ? 

Lessen'd ! diminish'd ! vanish'd quite I 

Lost to the tiny town ! 
Beyond the Eagle's ken — the grope 
Of DoUond's longest telescope ! 

Graham ! we're going down J 

XXXV. 

Ah me ! I've touch'd a string that opes 
The airy valve ! — the gas elopes — 

Down goes our bright balloon ! — 
Farewell the skies ! the clouds ! — I smell 
The lower world ! Graham, farewell, 

Man of the silken moon 1 

XXXVI. 

The earth is close ! the City nears^ 
Like a burnt paper it appears, 

Studded with tiny sparks ! 
Methinks I hear the distant rout 
Of coaches rumbling all about — 

We're close above the Parks ! 

XXXVII. 

I hear the watchmen on their beats, 
Hawking the hour about the streets. 

Lord ! what a cruel jar 
It is upon the earth to light ! 
Well — there's the finish of our flight I 

I've smoked my last cigar ! 



A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS FEY, IN 

NE WGA TE. 

" Sermons in stones." — At Yoit Like It, 
•' Out t out 1 damaed spot ! "— Macbeth. 



I LIKE you, Mrs 5ry ! I like your name ! 

It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing 

In da^y act round Charity's great flame — 

I like, the crisp Browne way you have of dressing, 



fH TO MRS FRY. 

Good Mrs Fry ! I like the placid claim 

You make to Christianity, — professiiiCT 

Love, and good tuorks — of course \ ou buy of Barton, 

Beside the young fry's bookseller, Friend Daiton 1 



II. 

I like, good Mrs Fry, your brethren mute— 
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sports 
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit 
Shaped like a court dress — but for heaven's court. 
I like your sisters too, — sweet Rachel's fruit — 
Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support 
Of virtue — and I like to see them clad 
With such a difference — just like good from bad I 



IIL 

I like the sober colours — not the wet ; 
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow- 
Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet — 
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain go— 
The others are a chaste, severer set. 
In which the good, the pious, and the plain go : 
They're moral standards, to know Christians by- 
In short, they are your colours, Mrs Fry 1 



IV. 

As for the naughty tinges of the prism — 
Crimson's the cruel uniform of war — 
Blue — hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism; 
And green is young and gay — not noted for 
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, 
Till it is sadden'd down to tea-,L,'reen, or 
Olive — and purple's given to wine, I guess ; 
And yellow is a convict by its dress 1 



V, 

They're all the devil's liveries, that men 

And women wear m servitude to sin — 

But how will they come off, poor motleys, when 

Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand ia 

The Evil presence ? You and I know then 

How all the party colours will be^n 

To part — the /"//lite hues will sadden there, 

Whereas the FoxiU shades will all show fair! 



71? MRS FRY, 



VI. 



Witness their goodly labours one by one ! 
Russet makes garments for the needy poor— 
Dove-colour preaches love to all — and dun 
Calls every day at Charity's street-door — 
Brown studies Scripture, and bids woman shuQ 
All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour 
Oil into wounds : and drad and slate supply 
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs Fry 1 



VII. 

Well ! Heaven forbid that I should discommend 
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour ! 
When all persuasions in your praises blend — 
The Methodists' creed and cry are, Fry for ever I 
No — I will be your friend — and, like a friend, 
Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never 
Start at that word ! — But 1 7m(st ask you why 
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs Fry ? 



VIII. 

Too well I know the price our mother Eve 

Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters 

Commit a petty larceny, and thieve — 

Pay down a crime for '''■entrance" to your " quarters f* 

Your classes may increase, but I must grieve 

Over your pupils at their bread an(^ waters ! 

Oh, tho' it cost you rent — (and rooms run high)! 

Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs Fry I 

IX. 

Oh, save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd ! 
Set up your mounted sign without the gate— 
And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd I 
'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! 
Nay, if you would not have your labours foil'd, 
Take it inclining \.QW2,rds a virtuous state. 
Not prostrate and laid fiat — else, woman meek I 
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek 1 



Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain 
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,— 
To bring sobriety to life again. 
Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin,— 



5S 71? MRS FRY. 

To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain,— 
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen, 
Of Suky Tawdry's habits to deprive her ; 
To tame the wildfowl^ways of Jenny Diver 1 



XI. 

Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach 
Miss Nnncy Dawson on her bed of straw — 
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach 
She made in manners — to write Heaven's own law 
On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach 
In cells, that are not memory's — to draw 
The moral thread, through the immoral eye 
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs Fry 1 



XII. 

In vain you teach them baby-work within : 
'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime ; 
'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin — 
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time- 
It is too late for scouring to begin 
When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime 
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains ; 
You'll fret the fabric out before the stains 1 



XIIL 

I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry t 

I like your cookery in every way ; 

I like your Shrove-tide service and supply; 

I like to hear your sweet Pandeatis play ; 

I like the pity in your full-brimm'd ey^ ; 

I like your carriage, and your silken grey, 

Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching | 

But I don't like your Newgatory teaching. 



XIV. 

Come out of Newgate, Mrs Fry ! Repair 
Abroad, and find \ our pupils in the streets. 
Oh, come abroad into the wholesome air, 
And take your moral place, before Sin seats 
Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. 
Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipt's 
To dress thein in the pan, but do not try 
To cook them in the fire, yood Mrs Fry 1 



TO MRS FRY. f9 



XV. 

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out / 

Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools 

In jail — but at the Porch ! hinting, no doubt, 

That Vice should have a lesson in the rules 

Before 'twas whipt by law. — Oh, come about, 

Good Mrs Fry ! and set up forms and stools 

All down the Old Bailey, and through Newgate Street, 

But not in Mr Wontner's proper seat 1 

XVI, 

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you 
That peerless PeercbS can absolve from dolour 
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue 
Ruin of blue, or any other colour ; 
Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, 
Month after month, the unpaid druni<en dollar; 
Teach her that " flooring Charleys " is a game 
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. 

XVII. 

Oh, come and teach our children — that aren't ours— 
That Heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, 
Not Hroad St Giles's, where fierce Sin devours 
Children, like Time — or rather they both prey 
On youth together — meanwhile Newgate lowers 
Even like a black cloud at the close of day, 
To shut them out from any more blue sky : 
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs Fry 1 

XVIII. 

You are not nice — go into their retreats, 
And make them Quakers, if you will. — 'Twere best 
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans//<?a/j/ 
That they had hats with brims, — that they were drest 
In garbs without I ppels — than shame the streets 
With so much raggedness. — You may invest 
Much cash this way — but it will cost its pric^ 
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice I 

XIX. 

In brief, — Oh, teach the child its moral rote. 
Not in the way from which it won't depart, — 
But out—o\x\. — out ! Oh, bid it walk remote I 
And if the skies are closed against the smart, 



TV RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P. 

Even let him wear the single-breasted coat, 
For that ensureth singleness of heart. — 
Do what you will, his every want supply, 
Keep him — but out of Newgate, Mrs Fry I 



ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE, 
M.P. FOR GAL WA V. 



How many sing of wars, 

Of Greek and Trojan jars— 

The butcheries of men ! 
The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen ! " 
Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; 

But no one sin:4S the man 

That, like a pelican. 
Nourishes Pity with his tender Btli I 



Thou Wilberforce of hacks ! 

Of whites as well as blacks, 

Piebald and dapple gray, 
Chestnut and bay — 
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns I 

But oxen, from the fens, 

Sheep — in their pens. 
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns t 
Thou art sung on brutal pipes I 

Drovers may curse thee, 

Knackers asperse thee, 
And sly M.P.s bestow their cruel wipes ; 

But the old horse neighs thee, 

And zebras praise thee. 
Asses, I mean — that have as many stripes t 

III. 

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, 
In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,— 
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air I 
Bullocks don't wear 
Oxide of iron ! 
The cruel Jarvy thou has summon'd oft. 
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, 
That thought his horse the courser of the two— 
Whilst Swift smiled down .ilof' ! — 



TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P, -dl 

Oh, worthy pair ! for this, when ye inhabit 
Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts 
From flesh to feather) — when the ckwn uplifts 
His hand against the sparrow's nest, to grab it,— 
He shall not harm the Martins and the Swifts I 

IV. 

Ah ! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanced 
The horse ! — and humbled biped man like Plato ! 
But now he's dead, the charger is mischanced, 
Gone backward in the world — and not advanced,— 

Remember Cato ! 
Swift was the horse's champion — not the King's, 

Whom Southey sings, 
Mounted on Pegasus — would he were thrown ! 
He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, 
Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things I 
Ah, well-a-day ! the ancients did not use 
Their steeds so cruelly ! — let it debar men 
From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse — 
Look at the ancients' Muse I 
Look at their Carmen I 



Y, 

O Martin ! how thine eye — 
That one would think had put aside its lashes,— 
That can't bear gashes 
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy 
That horrid window fronting Fetter Lane, — 
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual. 
Or some man painted in a bloody vein — 
Gods ! is there no Horse-spital ! 
That such raw shows must sicken the humane 1 
Sure Mr Whittle 
Loves thee but little, 
To let that poor horse linger in his /lane I 

VI. 

Oh, build a Brookes's Theatre for horses I 
Oh, wipe away the national reproach — 

And find a decent Vulture for their corses I 
And in thy funeral track 
Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach ! 

Steeds that confess "the luxury of wo !" 
True mourning steeds, in no extemnore black, 

And many a wretched hack 
Shall sorrow for thee, — sore with kick and blow 
And bloody gash— ^it is the Indian knack — 



TO THE GREAT UN KNOW If. 

(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)— 
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf — 
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, 
And Man and Horse go half and half, 
As if their griefs met in a common Centaur I 



ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN, 

'• Oh, breathe not his name I "— Moorb. 



Thou Great Unknown ! 
I do not mean Eternity nor Death, 

That vast incog. ! 
For I suppose thou hast a living breath, 
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, 

Thou man of fog ! 
Parent of many children — child of none 1 

Nobody's son ! 
Nobody's daughter — but a parent still ! 
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch 
Of orphan eggs, — left to the world to hatch. 

Superlative Nil ! 
A vox and nothing more, — yet not Vauxhall ; 
A head in papers, yet without a curl ! 

Not the Invisible Girl ! 
No hand — but a handwriting on a wall— 

A popular nonentity, 
Still call'd the same, — without identity I 

A lark, heard out of sight, — 
A nothing shined upon, — invisibly bright, 

" Dark with excess of light ! " 
Constable's literary John-a-nokes — 
The real Scottish wizard — to no which. 

Nobody — in a niche ; 

Every one's hoax ! 

Maybe Sir Walter Scott — 
Perhaps not ! 
Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks? 

II. 

Thou, — whom the second-sighted never saw. 
The Master Fiction of fictitious history ! 

Chief Nong tong paw ! 
No mister in the world — and yet all mysteiy t 
The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane— 
A novel Junius, puzzling the world's brain — 



TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 

A man of magic — yet no talisman ! 

A man of clair obscure — not him o' the moon I 

A star — at noon ; 
A non-descriptus in a caravan ; 
A private — of no corps — a northern light 
In a dark lantern, — Bogie in a crape — 
A figure — but no shape ; 
A vizor — and no knight ; 
The real abstract hero of the age ; 
The staple Stranger of the stage ; 
A Some One made in every man's presumption, 
Frankenstein's monster — but instinct with gumption ; 
Another strange state captive in the north, 
Constable-guarded in an iron mask — 
Still let me ask, 
Hast thou no silver platter, 
No door-plate, or no card — or some such matter, 
To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth ? 

III. 

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger 
Of Curiosity with airy gammon ! 

Thou mystery-monger. 
Dealing it out like middle cut of snlmon, 
That people buy and can't make head or tail of it. 
(Howbeit that puzzle never hurls the sde of it) ; I- 
Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical. 
That lay their proper bodies on the shelf — 
Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, 

Thou Zimmerman made practical I 
Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, 

That, like the Nile, 
Hideth its source wherever it is bred. 

But still keeps disemboguing 

(Not disembroguing) 
Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head 1 
Thou disembodied author — not yet dead,— 
The whole world's literary Absentee ! 

Ah ! wherefore hast thou fled, 
Thou learned Nemo — wise to a degree, 

Anonymous L. L. D. ? 

IV. 

Thou nameless captain of the nnme'iess gang 
That do — and inquests cannot say who did it ! 

Wert thou at Mrs Donatty's death-pang? 
Hast thou made gravy of Wear's watch — or hid it ? 
Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! 

I should be very loth to see thee hang ! 



TO THE GREAT UN KNOW IT. 

I hope thou hast an ali^i well plann'd, 
An innocent, altho' ar. ink-black hand. 

Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt OQ 

The curiosity of all invaders — 
I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, 
Who knows a little of the Holy Land, 

Writing thy next new novel — The Crusaders I 

V. 

Perhaps thou wert even born 
To be Unknown. — Perhaps hung:, some foggy mor% 
At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, 

Penn'd to a ticket 
That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing 
The future great unmentionable being.— 

Perhaps thou hast ridden, 
A scholar poor, on St Augustine's back. 
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack 

Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden ; 
A little hoard of clever simulation, 

That took the town — and Constable has bidden 
Some hundred pounds for a continuation — 
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation. 

VI. 

I liked thy Waverley — first of thy breeding; 

I like its modest " sixty years ago," 
As if it was not meant for ages' readmg. 

I don't like Ivanhoe, 
Tho' Dymoke does — it makes him think of clattering 

In iron overalls before the king, 
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering. 

Tuning his challenge to the gauntlets' ring— 
Oh, better far than all that anvil clang 

It was to hear thee touch the famous string 
Of Robin Hood's tough bow, and make it twang, 
Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, 
Like Sagittarian Pan 1 

VII. 

I like Guy Mannering — but not that sham son 
Of Brown. — 1 like that literary Sampson, 
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Person. 
I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson 

That slew the Guager ; 
And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major j 
And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, 

That Scottish Witch of Endor. 
That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, 
To tell a great man's fortune— or to make it 1 



TO THE GREA T UNKNO WAT. (j j 



I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, 

He makes me think of Mr Britton, 
Who has— or had — within his garden wall, 
A miniature Stone Henge, so very sm^all 

The sparrows find it difficult to sit on ; 
And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gre^or ; 
And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar, 

Painted so cleverly 
I think thou surely knowest Mrs Beverly ! 
I like thy Barber — him that fired the Beacon— 
But that's a tender subject now to speak on ! 

IX. 

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. — His very charms 

Fashion'd him for renown ! — In sad sincerity, ' 

The man that robs or writes must have long armt 
If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity ! 
Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity, 
Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) 

Bearing the name she bore, 
A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy 1 
But Roys can never die — why else, in verity, 
Is Paris echoing with " Vive le Roy /" 
Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di 
Vernon, of course, shall often live again — 
Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain. 

Who can pass by 
Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? 
There be Old Bailey Jarvys on the stand 1 



I like thy Landlord's Tales !— I like that Idol 
Of love and Lammermoor — the blue-eyed maid 
That led to church the mounted cavalcade, 

And then puU'd up with such a bloody bridall 
Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches— 
I like the family — not silver — branches 
That hold the tapers 

To light the serious Legend of Montrose.— 
I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours, 
As if he could not walk or talk alone, 
Without the devil — or the Great Unknown^— • 

Dalgetty is .the dearest of Ducrows I 

XI. 

I Uke St Leonard's Lily — drench'd with dew J 

I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, 

That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. 



TO THE GREAT UNKNOWl<i, 

I like the battle lost and won, 
The hurlyburly's bravelv done, 
The warlike gallops and the warlike canttrs \ 
I like that girded chieftain of the Ranters, 
Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple^ 
With one eye on his sword, 
And one upon the Word, — 
How he would cram the C-dedonian Chapel ! 
I like stern Claverhouse, though he dotli dapple 
His raven steed with blood of m.iny a corse— 
I like dear Mrs Headrigg, that unravels 

Her texts of Scripture on a trotting horse- 
She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels 1 



XII. 

I like thy Kenilworth — but I'm not going 

To take a Retrospective Re-Review 
Of all thy dainty novels — merely showing 

The old familiar faces of a few, 
The question to renew, 
How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, 
Forego the unclaim'd dividends of fame, 
Forego the smiles of literary houris — 
Mid- Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, 

And all the Carse of Cowrie's, 
When thoir, might'st have thy statue in Cromarty — 

Or see t'ly image on Italian trays, 
Betwixt Qi ;een Caroline and Buonaparte, 

Be painted by the Titian of R.A.s, 
Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph ! 

Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, 
Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself 

To other Englands with Australian reamers— 
Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee 
Displace the native wooden gods, or be 
The China- Lar of a Canadian shelf t 



XIIL 

It Is not modesty that bids thee hide- 
She never wastes her blushes out of sight S 
It is not to invite 

The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,— 

And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide, 
Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd, — - 

From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars 
In crimson collars, 
And learned Serjeants in the Forty-second ! 
Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd? 



TO THE GREAT UNKNOWfT. 

Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, 
Defying distance and its dim control ; 

Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth 
A brace of Miltons for capacious soul — • 

Perhaps studied in the whalers farther north, 
And set above ten Shal<espeares near the pole I 

XIV. 

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp^ 
With such a giant genius at command. 

For ever at thy stamp, 
To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, 
When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand 
Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, 

Tho' princes sought her, 
And lead her in procession hymeneal, 
Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal ! 
Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, 
Enveloped in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs ? 
Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, 
Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft, 
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd 
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs I 

XV. 

What in this masquing age 
Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy? 

What but the critic's page ? 
One hath a cast he hides from the world's eye; 
Another hath a wen, — he won't show where; 

A third has sandy hair, 
A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, — 
Things for a vile reviewer to espy ! 
Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose, — 

Finally, this is dimpled. 
Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled,— 
Things for a monthly critic to expose : 
Niy, what is thy own case — that, being small, 
Thou choosest to be nobody at all ! 

XVI. 

^Vell, thou art prudent, with such puny bones— 
E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, 
That shadowy revelation of thyself — 

To build thee a small hut of haunted stones — 

For certainly the first perniciou? man 

That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee 

In some vile literary caravan — 



i8 710 JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 

Shown for a shilling 

Would be thy killing, 
Think of Crachami's miserable span ! 
No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell In 

Than there it fell in — 
But when she felt herself a show, she tried 
To shrink from the world s eye, poor dwarf !— and died I 

xvir. 

Oh, since it was thy fortune to be born 
A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch 
From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, 

Still with thy small crow pen 
Amuse and chnrm thy lonely hours forlorn — 
Still Scottish story daintily adorn ; 

Be still a shade — and when this age is fled, 
When we poor sons and daughters of reality 
Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, 
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality— 
The lithographic hand of Old Mortality 
Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, 

A featureless death's head. 
And rob Oblivion even of the Unknown I 



ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR 



'This fellow's wise enouph to pliy the fool, 
And to do that well craves a kind of wit. " 

—Twelfth. NigU, 



Joseph ! they say thou'st left the stage, 

To toddle down the hill of life. 

And taste the fl mnell'd ease of age, 

Apart from pantomimic strife — 

** Retired — (for Young would call it so)— 

The world shut out" — in Pleasant Row I 



II. 

And hast thou really wash'd at last 

From each white cheek the red half moon! 

And all thy public Clownship cast, 

To play the private Pantaloon ? 

All youth — all ages — yet to be 

Sh.ill have a heavy miss of thee ! 



TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR, ^ 



III. 

Thou didst not preach to make us wise— 
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling — 
Thou didst not "lure us to the skies" — 
Thy simple, simple trade was — Fooling ! 
And yet, Heaven knows ! we could — we caD 
Much " better spare a better man 1 " 

IV. 

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take 
The reverend Croly from the stage. 
Or Southey, for our quiet's sake, 
Or Mr Fletcher, Cupid's sage, 
Or, damme ! namby-pamby Poole,— 
Or any other clown or fool 1 

V. 

Go, Dibdin — all that bear the name I 
Go, Byeway Highway man ! go ! go I 
Go, Siceffy — man of painted fame, 
But leave thy partner, painted Joe I 
I could bear Kirby on the wane, 
Or Signer Paulo with a sprain I 

VI. 

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made 
His grey hairs scarce in private peace-* 
Had Waithman sought a rural shade— 
Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease — 
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Baalam Hill— 
I think I could be cheerful still 1 

VII. 

Had Medwin left off, to his praise, 
Dead lion kicking, like — a friend ! — 
Had long, long Irving gone his ways, 
To muse on death at Ponder's End-—' 
Or Lady Morgan taken leave 
Of Letters — still I might not grieve 1 

VIII. 

But, Joseph — everybody's Jo ! — 

Is gone — and grieve 1 will and must I 

As Hamlet did for Yorick, so 

Will I for thee (though not yet dust), 

And talk as he did when he miss'd 

The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd I 



fib TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR, 



IX. 

Ah, where is now thy rolling head ! 
Thy winkin^j, reehng, drunken eyes 
(As old Catullus would have said). 
Thy oven-mouth, that suallow'd pies — 
Enormous hunger — monstrous drowth !— 
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth 1 



Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd — 
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands ! — 
Thy partridge body, always stuti 'd 
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands !— 
Thy foot — like Berkeley's Fooie — for why ? 
'Twas often made to wipe an eye 1 

XI. 

Ah, where thy legs — that witty pair ! 
For " great wiis jump " — and so did they I 
Lord ! how they leap'd in l.imiilight air ! 
Caper'd — and bounced — and strode away !— 
That years should tame the legs— alack 1 
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack 1 

XII. 

But bounds will have their bound — the shocks 
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes ; 
And those that frisk'd in silken clocks 
May look to limp in fleecy hose — 
One only — (Champion of the ring) 
Could ever make his Wmter, — Spring I 

XIII. 

And gout, that owns no odds between 
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, 
Will visit — but I did not me:in 
To moralise, though I am grown 
Thus sad, — Thy going seeai'd to beat 
A muffled drum for Fun's retreat 1 

XIV. 

And, may be — 'tis no time to smother 
A sigh, when two prime wags of London 
Are gone — thou, Joseph, one — the other, 
A Joe ! — " Sic transit gloria Munden I" 
A third departure some insist on, — 
Stage-apoplexy threatens Listen ! — 



rO JOSEPH GRIMALDIt SENIOR. 



XV. 

Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep 
With ancient " Dozey" to the dregs — 
Let Mother Goose wear mournirg deep, 
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs ! 
Let Farley weep — for Magic's man 
Is gone, — his Christmas Caliban 1 

XVI. 

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain, 
As tho'they walk'd behind thy bier, — 
For since thou wilt not play again, 
What matters, — if in heaven or here I— 
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed ! — 
There's Quick,* might just as well be dead 1 

XVII. 

Oh, how will thy departure cloud 

The lamplight of the little breast ! 

The Christmas child will grieve aloud 

To miss his broadest friend and best,— 

Poor urchin ! what avails to him 

The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm f 

XVIII. 

For who like thee could ever stride I 
Some dozen paces to the mile ! — 
The motley, medley coach provide— 
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile 
The vegetable man complete !— 
A proper Covent Garden feat 1 

XIX, 

Oh, who like thee could ever drink, 

Or eat, swill, swallow — bolt and choke ! 

Nod, weep, and hiccup — sneeze and wink?— 

Thy very yawn was quite a joke ! 

Tho' Joseph, Junior, acts not ill, 

" There's no Fool like the old Fool" still I 

XX. 

Joseph, farewell ! dear funny Joe ! 
We met with mirth, — we part in pain t 
For many a long, long year must go 
Ere Fun can see thy like again — 
For Nature does not keep great stores 
Of perfect Clowns — that are not J::oors ! 

One of the old actors :— still a performer (but in private) of Old Rapid. 



»a 



AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM- WASHING 
COMPANY. 

" Archer. How many are there, Scrub? 
Scrub. Five and forty, sir." — Beaux Strafa^enu 
" For shame— let the linen aloae 1 " — Merry IVives of Windtt^, 

Mr Scrub — r.lr Slop — or whoever you be ! 

The Cock of Steam Laundries, — the head Patentee 

Of Associate Cleansers, — chief foundei 2.nd prime 

Of the lirm for the wholesale distilling; of grime — 

Copartners and dealers in linen's propriety — 

That make washing public — and wash in society— 

Oh, lend me your ear ! if that ear can forego, 

For a moment, the music that bubbles below, — 

From your new Surrey Geisers,* all foaming and hot,— 

That soft " simmeT^s sang " so endear'd to the Scot ; 

If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger- 

If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger, 

Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub, — 

Oh, wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub, — 

And lend me your ear, — Let me modestly plead 

For a race that your labours may soon supersede— 

For a race that, now wasiiing no living affords, 

Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards. 

Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, 

Not with bread in the funds, or investments of cheese,— 

But to droop like sad willows that lived by a stream, 

Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam. 

Ah ! look at the laundress, before you begrudge 

Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge ; 

When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, 

She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, 

And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey, 

As if she was washing the night into day ; 

Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora 

Bei-jinneth to scatter the dewdrops before her ; 

Not Venus, that rose from the billow so early, 

Look'd down on the foam with a forehead n\ox& ^early^-^ 

Her head is involved in an aerial mist, 

And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist ; 

Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty ; 

She's Industry's moral — she's all moral beauty I 

Growing brighter and brighter at every rub — 

Would any man ruin her? — No, Mr Scrub ! 

• Geisers — the boiling .springs in Iceland. 
t Query, purly 'i — Printer's Devil. 



TO THE STEAM- WASHING COMPANY, , Jj 

No man that is manly would work her mishap — 
No man that is manly would covet her cap— 
Nor her apron — her hose — nor her gown made of stuff— 
Nor her gin — nor her tea — nor her wet pinch of snuff ! 
Alas ! so she thought — but that sliiipery hope 
Has betray'd her — as tho' she had trod on her soap ! 
And she, whose support, like the fishes that fly, 
Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky- 
She whose living it was, and a part of her fare, 
To be damp'd once a day, like the great white sea-bear, 
With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop- 
Quite a living absorbent that reveil'd in slop — 
She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, 
And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land 1 



Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched she stands, 

Instead of a counterpane wringing her hands ! 

All haggard and pinch'd, going down in life's vale, 

With no faggot for burning, like Allan-a-dale ! 

No smoke from her flue — and no steam from her pane, 

Where once she watch'd heaven, fearmg God and the rain— 

Or gazed o'er her bleachfield so fairly engross'd, 

Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post ! 

Ah, where are the playful young pinners — ah, where 

The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air — 

The brisk waltzmg stockings, the white and the black, 

That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack— 

The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd. 

That blew into shape, and embodied the wind ! 

There was white on the grass, there was white on the spray— 

Her garden, it look'd like a garden of May! 

But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub — ■ 

You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr Scrub ! 

You've ruin'd her custom — now families drop her — 

From her silver reduced — nay, reduced from her copper! 

The last of her washing is done at her eye. 

One poor little kerchief that never gets dry ! 

From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth, 

And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth ; 

But her children come round her as victuals grow scaut, 

And recall, with foul faces, the source of their want — 

When she thinks of their poor little mouths to be fed, 

And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead, 

And even its pearl-ashes laid in the grave — 

Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave, 

And the greatest of Coopers, even he that they dub 

Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub, — 

Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr Scrub ! 

Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread, 

If she prays that the evil may visit _y^«r head — 



94 TO THE STEAM-WASHING COMPANY. 

Nay, scald all the heads of your Washinf;^ Committee,-^ 

If she wishes you ail the soot blacks of the city — 
In shoit, not to mention all plagues wiihout number, 
If she wishes you all in the IVash at the H umber ! 

Ah ! perhaps in some moment of drowth and despair, 

When her linen got scarce, and her waslung grew rare— 

When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl. 

And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul — 

When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye 

Had caught "the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by. 

On her lines that hung idle, to waste the tine weather. 

And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, 

In a lather of passion, that froth'd as it rose. 

Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose. 

On her sheet — if a sheet were still left her — to write. 

Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light :- 



LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM 
BRID GE T JONES 

To the Noblemen and Gentlemen forming the Washing Committee, 

It's a shame, so it is, — men cnn't Let alone 

Jobs as is Woman's right to do — and go about there Own — • 

Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools 

For washing to sit Up, — and push the Old Tubs from their stools! 

But your just like the Raddicals, — for upsetting of the Sudds 

When the world wagged well enuff — and Wommen washed your old 

dirty duds, 
I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no stream Ingins, that's 

Flat,— 
But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentlemanny for 

all that— 
I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle 
I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable period 

back when I were litile, 
And they Said it went with Steem, — But that was a joke ! 
For I n'ever see none come of it, — that's out of it — but only sum 

Smoak — 
And for All your Power of Horses about your Ingins you never had 

but Two 
In my time to draw you About to Fairs — and curse you, you know 

that's true ! 
And for All your fine Perspectuses, — howsomever you bewhich 'em, 
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchun^ 



TO THE STEAM-WASHING COMPANY. 75 

Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another 

to Do- 
lt aant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher can take a Birdshigh view ! 
But Thats your look out — I've not much to do wich that — But pleas 

God to hold up fine, 
Id show you caps and pinners and small things as hllywhit as Ever 

crosst the Line 
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place, 
And Thats more than you Can — and 111 say it behind your face — 
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak, — 
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak ! 
Thinks I, when I heard it — Well thear's a Pretty go ! 
That comes o' not marking of things or washin;j out the marks, and 

Huddling 'em up so ! 
Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a 

Vault, 
But may Hap you havint L^rn'd to spel — and That ant your Fault, 
Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd, — 
For if it warnt for Washing, — and whare Bills is concarnd 
What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Edication, 
And Their Bemg maid Schollards of Sundays — fit for any Cityation. 



Well, what I says is This — when every Kittle has its spout, 

Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam about ! 

To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind 

For blowing up Boats with, — but not to hurt human kind 

Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot water, 

Thof a Sherrif might know Better, thrm make things for slaughtter. 

As if War warnt Cruel enuff — wherever it befalls, 

Without snooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot washing balls, — 

But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubi^s 

As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Stream rubbing Clubs, 

For washing Dirt Cheap, — and eating other Peple's grubs ! 

Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, 

But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Bo-He ! 

They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will be !) 

And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods. 

When you and your Steam has rumed (G — d forgive mee) their lively 

Hoods, 
Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth ! 
And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth ! 
But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at — 
They won't do for Angell's — nor any Trade like That, 
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work, — for that's all Bespoke,— 
For the Queakers in Bridle ! and a vast of the confind Folk 
Do their own of Themselves — even the bettermost of em — aye, and 

evn them of middling degrees — 
Why God help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese ! 
Nor we c.in't go a hammering the roads into Dust, 
But we must all go and be Bankers, — and that's what we must ! 



5jf6 TO THE STEAM-WASHING COMPANY, 

God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, 

When you nose you have suck'd us and hang'd round our Mutherly 

necks, 
And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing — 
You ant, curse you, like Men to go a slushing and sloshing 
In mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers 
And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you now 

by you next door neighbours — 
Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up 
No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp — 
And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round 
They'll scruntch your Bones some day — I'll be bound 
And no more nor be a gudgement, — for it cant come to good 
To sit up agin Providince, which your a doing, — nor not fit It should, 
For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation. 
Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation — 
And cant be dun without in any Country But a Hottinpot Nation. 
Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs 
And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs — 
But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nayther Bybills 

or Good Tracks, 
Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one's Backs — 
And let your neighbours oxin an Asses alone, — 
And every Thing thats hern, — and give every one their Hone I 

Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself, 

And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf, 

But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe 

And pull off Your Pattins, — and leave the washing to we 

That nose what's what — Or mark what I say, 

Youl make a tine Kittle of fish of Your Close some day — 

When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their ant nun at all, 

And Crist mass cum — and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, 

Or send a damp shirt to his Worship the Mare 

Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite in his Chare — 

Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not tC 

wash (for you dont wash) but to stew 
And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew 
With a vast more like That, — and all along of Steam 
Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam — 
But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, 
And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud, 
For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways 
\\ ithout taking ourn, — aye, and Moor to your Prays 
If You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt, 
but you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt ! 
Vourn with Anymocity, 

Bridget Jones. 



77 



ODE TO CAPTAIN FAERY, 

• By the North Pole I do challenge thee 1 " — Love's Laiour Lastt 
I. 

Parry, my man ! has thy brave leg 
Vet struck its foot against the peg 

On which the world is spun ? 
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare 
Writ by the hand of Nature there 

Where man has never run ? 

II- 

Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown 
Of channels in the Frozen Zone, 

Or held at Icy Bay ? 
Hast thou still miss'd the proper track 
For homeward Indiamen, that lack 

A bracmg by the way ? 

III. 

Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble 
On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble 

Of geographic scholar? 
. Or found new ways for ships to shapeji 
Instead of winding round the Cape, 
A short cut thro' the collar ! 

IV. 

Hast found the way that sighs were sent to* 
The Pole — tho' God knows whom they went tot 

That track reveal'd to Pope — 
Or if the Arctic waters sally, 
Or terminate in some blind alley, 

A chilly path to grope ? 

V, 

Alas ! tho' Ross, in love with snows, 
Has painted them cojileur de rose, 

It is a dismal doom, 
As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, 
** In regions of thick-ribbed ice" — 

All bright, — and yet all gloom ! 

•* And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole." — Eioisa to Abchrd, 



yS TO CAPTAIN PARRY, 



VI. 

Tis well for Gheber souls, that sit 
Before the fire and worship it 

With pecks of Wallsend coals, 
With feet upon the fender's front, 
Roasting their corns — like Mr Hunt-«» 

To speculate on poles. 

VII. 

Tis easy for our Nival Board— 
Tis easy for our Civic Lord 

Of London and of ease, 
That lies in ninety feet of down, 
With fur on his nocturnal gown. 

To talk of Frozen Seas 1 

VIII. 

Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, 
And prate about the mund.me spit. 

And babble of Cook's track — 
He'd roast the leather off his toes 
Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows 

To plant a British Jack I 

IX. 

Oh, not the proud licentious great, 
That travel on a carpet-skate, 

Can value toils like thine ! 
What 'tis to take a ' Hecia' rang^ 
Through ice unknown to Mr Grange, 

And alpine lumps of brine ! 

X. 

But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, 
Can tell how hard it is to climb 

The lofty slippery steep. 
Ah ? there are more Snow Hills than that 
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, 

Upon its forehead, keepi 

XI. 

Perchance thou'rt now— while I am writing- 
Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting 

Al)out thy frozen spine ! 
Or thou thyself art eating whale, 
Oily, and underdone, and stale, 

That, haply, cross'd thy line I 



TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 79 



XII. 

But ni not dream such dreair.s of ill— • 
Rather will I believe thee still 

Safe cellar'd in the snow, — 
Reciting many a gallant story 
Of British kings and British glory, 

To crony Esquimaux — 

XIII. 

Cheering that dismal game where Night 
Makes one slow move from black to white 

Thro' all the tedious year, — 
Or smitten by some tond frost fair, 
That comb'd out crystals from her hair, 

Wooing a seal-skin Dear ! 

XIV. 

So much a long communion fends. 
As Byron says, to make us friends 

With what we daily view — 
God knows the d dntiest taste may coins 
To love a nose that's like a plum 

In marble, cold and blue 1 

XV. 

To dote on hair, an oily fleece ! 

As the' it hung from Helen o' Greece: 

They say that love prevails 
E'en in the veriest polar land — 
And surely she may steal thy hand 

That used to steal thy nails ! 

XVI. 

But ah! ere thou art fix'd to marry. 
And take a polar Mrs Parry, 

Think of a six months' gloom — 
Think of the wintry waste, and hers, 
Each furnish'd with a dozen /«rj, 

Think of thine icy dome I 

XVII. 

Think of the children born to blubberl 
Ah me ! hast thou an India-rubber 

Inside ! — to hold a meal 
Tor months, — about a stone and half 
Of whale, and part of a sea-calf — 

A fillet of salt veal !— 



lO TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 



XVIII. 



Some walrus ham — no trifle, but 
A decent steak — a solid cut 

Of seal — no wafer slice ! 
A reindeer's tongue — and drink beside t 
Gallons of sperm — not rectified I 

And pails of water-ice ! 

XIX. 

Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus? 
Still come away, and teach to us 

Those blessed alternations — 
To-day to run our dinners fine, 
To feed on air, and then to dine 

With Civic Corporations — 

XX. 

To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, 
And then to take a half year's filling 

In P. N.'s pious Row — 
When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'soQ, 
Thro' something we have worn our pens on 

For Longman and his Co. 

XXI. 

Oh, come, and tell us what the Pole is— 
Whether it singular and sole is, 

Or straight, or crooked bent, — 
If very thick or very thin, — 
Made of what wood — and if akin 

To those there be in Kent ? 

XXII. 

There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, 
Have talk'd of poles — yet, after all, 

What has the public learn'd .? 
And Hunt's account must still defer, — • 
He sought \S\ftpoU at Westminster— 

And is not yet returned I 

XXIII. 

Alvnnley asks if whist, dear soul, 

Is play'd in snow-towns near the Polc^ 

And how the fur-man deals ? 
And Eldon doubts if it be true 
Tliat icy Chanct-Uoi's really do 

Exist upon the seals ? 



TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 



XXIV. 

Barrow, by well-fed office grates, 
Talks of his own bechristen'd Straits, 

And longs that he were there ; 
And Croker, in his cabriolet, 
Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay, 

And pants to cross the merl 

XXV. 

Oh, come away, and set us right, 
And, haply, throw a northern light 

On questions such as these : — 
Whether, when this drown'd world was lost, 
The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, 

And turn'd to Icy Seas ? 

XXVI. 

Is Ursa Major white or black? 
Or do the Polar tribes attack 

Their neighbours — and what for? 
Whether they ever play at cuiTs, 
And then, if they take off their mufifs 

In pugilistic war? 

XXVII. 

Tell us, is Winter champion thett^ 
As in our milder fighting air ? 

Say, what are Chilly loans ? 
Wh<rt cures they have for rheums beside, 
And if their hearts get ossified 

From eating bread of bones ? 

XXVIII. 

Whether they are such dwarfs — the quicker 
To circulate the vital liquor, — * 

And then, from head to heel — 
How short the Methodists must choose 
Their dumpy envoys not to lose 

Their toes in spite of zeal ? 

XXIX. 

Whether 'twill soften cr sublime it 
To preach of Hell in such a climate— 

Whether may Wesley hope 
To win their souls— or that old function 
Of seals — with the extreme of unction- 
Bespeaks them for the Pope ? 

• Buffon. 



TO MARIA DARLINGTON, 

XXX. 

Whether the lamps will e'er be "learned" 
Where six months' "midnight oil" is burned, 

Or Letters must defer 
With people that have never conn'd 
An A, B, C, but live beyond 

The Sound of Lancaster I 

XXXI. 

Oh, come away at any rate — 

Well hast thou earn'd a downier state 

With ail thy hardy peers — 
Good lack ! thou must be giad to smell doclc^ 
And rub thy ftet with opodeldock. 

After such frosty years. 

XXXII. 

Mayhap, some £;entle dame at last, 
Smit by the perils th(m hast pass'd, 

However coy before, 
Shall bid thee now set up thy rest 
In that Brest Harbour, Woman's breast, 

And tempt the Fates no more ! 



ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON, ON HER 
RETURN TO THE STAGE* 

•* It was Maria I 

And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid 

She had, since that, she told jne, strayed as far as Rome, and wjlked round St Petert 

once — and retum'd back " 

Ste the whole story, in Sterne and the Neivs^a^era. 



Thou art come back again to the stage, 

Quite as blooming as wiien thou didst leave it ; 
And 'tis well for this fortunate age 

That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it 1 
It is pleasant to see thee again — 

Right pleasant to see thee, by Herein, 
Unmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne ! 

And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley 1 

II. 

Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light 
(Not 7ny Foote — I speak by correction) 

* Written iointly with J. II. Reynolds. 



TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 9i 

As the snow on some mountain at night, 

Or the snow that has long on thy neck shonSi 

The Pit is in raptures to free thee, 
The Boxes impatient to greet thee, 

The Galleries quite clamorous to see thee, 
And thy scenic relations to meet thee I 

III. 

Ah, where was thy sacred retreat ? 

Maria ! ah, where hast thou been, 
With thy two little wandering Feet, 

Far away from all peace and pea-green? 
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold. 

Far away from himself and his lot ! 
I envy the place thou hast stroll'd, 

iif a stroller thou art— which thou'rt not I 

IV. 

Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, 

Methinks, at the close of the day— 
When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string, 

And thy little dog quite gone astray — 
He bade thee to sorrow no more — 

He wish'd thee to lull thy distress 
In his bosom— he couldn't do more, 

And a Christian could hardly do less t 



Ah me ? for thy small plaintive pipe 

I fear we must look at thine eye — 
That eye — forced so often to wipe 

That the handkerchief never got dry I 
Oh, sure 'tis a barbarous deed 

To give pain to the feminine mind — 
But the wooer that left thee to bleed 

Was a creature more killing than kind I 



VI. 

The man that could tread on a worm 

Is a brute — and inhuman to boot ; 
But he merits a much harsher term 

That can wantonly tread on a Foote ! 
Soft mercy and gentleness blend 

To make up a Quaker — but he 
That spurn'd thee could scarce be a Friend, 

Tho' he dealt in th^t Thou-ing of thee ! 



TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 



VII. 

They that loved thee, Maria, have flown I 

The friends of the midsummer hour 1 
But those friends now in anguish atone, 

And mourn o'er thy desolate bower. 
Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out. 

Yea, utterly out of his liias ; 
And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt, 

Is counting his Ave Marias 1 

VIII. 

Ah, where wast thou driven away, 

To feast on thy desolate woe ? 
We have witness'd thy weeping in play. 

But none ^aw the earnest tears flow- 
Perchance thou wert truly forlorn, — 

Tho' none but the fairies could mark 
Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn. 

Or the thistles in Burderop Park ! 

IX. 

Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow 

Has silver'd the crown of Hayne's nob — 
For even the greenest will grow 

As hoary as *' White-headed Bob"— 
He'll wish, in the days of his prime, 

He had been rather kinder to one 
He hath left to the malice of Time— 

A woman — so weak and undone I 



ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

iUTHOR OF THE COOK'S ORACLE ; OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC ; THH 
ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE ; PRACTICAL OBSliRVA* 
TIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES ; THE HOUSE- 
KEEPER'S LEDGER ; AND THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WliX. 

** I rule the roast, as Milton says I " — Caleb Quotem. 



Hail I multifarious mnn ! 
Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen CrichtonI 

Born to enlighten 
The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking- 
Master of the Piano — and the Pan — 
As busy with the kitchen as the skies ! 



TO W. KITCHENER, MD. %% 

^ Now looking 
At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes, — 
Or boiling eggs — timed to a metronome— 

As much at home 
In spectacles as in mere isinglass — 
In the' art of frying brown — as a digression 
On music and poetical expression, — 
Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas ! 
Could tell Calliope from " Calliopee ! " 

How few there be 
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories. 

(Observatories), 
And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, 
However cooHs synonymous with Katerl* 

Alas ! still let me say, 

How few could lay 
The carving-knife beside the tuning-fork, 
Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work I 



Oh, to behold thy features in thy book \ 
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plat^ 

How it would look ! 
With one raised eye watching the dial's dat^ 
And one upon the roast, gently cast down — 

Thy chops — done nicely brown — 
The garnish'd brow — with " a i^^ leaves of bay ** — 

The hair — "don" Wiggy's way !" 
And still one studious finger near thy brains, 

As if thou wert just come 

From editing some 
New soup — or hashirw^ Dibdin's cold remains f 
Or, Orpheus-like,— fr^h from thy dying strains 
Of music, — Epping luxuries of sound, 

As Milton says, "in many a bout 

Of linked sweetness long drawn out,'* 
Whilst all thy tame stuffd leopards listen'd round ! 

III. 

Oh, rather thy whole proper length reveal. 
Standing like Fortune, — on the jack — thy wheel. 
(Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes. 
Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye !) 
Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges, 
As tho' it were the same to sing or fry — 
Nay, so it is — hear how Miss Paton's throat 
Makes " fritters " of a note ! 

• Captain Kater, the Moon's Surveyor, 



K TO IF. KITCHENER, M.D. 

And is not reading near akin to feeding, 
Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit 

Receptacles for wit ? 
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, 
Minced brains into a Tart ? 
Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts^ 

Book-treats, 
Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her— 
Receipts to be devour'd, as well as read, 
The Culinary Art in gingerbread— 
. The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar I 



IV. 

Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page- 
Ay, very pleasant in its chatty vein — 
So — in a kitchen — would have talk'd Montaigne, 

That merry Gascon, humourist, and sage ! 

Let slender minds with single themes engage, 
Like Mr Bowles with his eternal Pope, — 

Or Lovelass upon Wills, — Thou goest on 

Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson ! 
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, 

Stuffd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 
And ever shifting on from change to change, 

Saucepans — old Songs — Pills — Spectacles — and Spits I 
Thy range is wider than a Rumford range 1 

Thy grasn a miracle ! — till I recall 

Th' indubitable cause of thy variety — 

Thou art, of course, ih' Epitome of all 

That spying — frying— sinking — inix'd Society 

Of Scieiuitic Friends, who Ubcd to meet 

Welsh Rabbits — and thyself^in Warren Street 1 



V. 

Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, 
Where learned visitors discoursed — and fed? 

There came 13elzoni, 
Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead — 

And gentle Poki — and that Royal Pair, 
Of whom thou didst declare — 
"Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read — 
They were — what Sandwiches should be — haXi bred!* 
There fimed M'Adam from his manual toil 
Relax'd — and freely own'd he took thy hints 

On "making Broth with Flitits" — 
There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil 
For melted butter — Combe with his medullary 
Notions about the Skullery, 



TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 

And Mr Poole, too partial to a broil — 
There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! 
Wiio used to swear thy book 
Would really look 
A Delphic " Oracle," if laid on Del/— 
There, once a month, came Campbell, and discuss'd 
His own — and thy own — '■'■Magazine ot Taste" — 

There Wilberforce the Just 
Came, in his old black suit, till once he traced 
Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, 
That "do not break \\it\x yolks ^' — 
Which hufi'd him home, in grave disgust and haste i 



VI. 

There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore 
Thy Patties — thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, 
Who call'd thee '■'■Kitchen Addison" — for why? 
Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, 
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, 
" Teaching us how to live and how to die ! " 
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs Fry — 
There Trench, the Thnmes Projector, first brought on 

His sine Quay non, — 
There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, 
Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 

'Gainst cattle days and death, — 
Ansvver'd by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves. 

Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager 
For fighting on soup-mengre — 
"And yet (as thou would'st add), the French have seen 
A Marshal Tureen I " 



VII. 

Great was thy Evening Cluster ! — often graced 

With DoUond— Burgess— and Sir Humphry Davy I 

'Twas there M'Dermot first inclined to Taste, — 

There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste 

For puffs — and Accum analysed a gravy. 

Colman — the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said. 

Came there, — and Parkins with his Ex- wise-head 

(His claim to letters) — Kaicr, too, the Moon's 

Crony, — and Graham, lofty on balloons, — 

There Croly stalkd with holy humour heated 

(Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed)- 

And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, 
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, — 
Madame Valbreque thrice honour'd thee, and came 



IS TO IV. KITCHENER, M.D. 

With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,^ 
And even Irving spared a night Irom fame, 
And talk'd— till thou didst stop him in the middle^ 
To serve round Tewah-diddle I * 



VIII. 

Then all the guests rose up, and sigh'd good-bye I 
So let them : — thou tliyself art still a //osi I 

Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mrs Fry ! 

Mrs Glasse, Mr Spec ! — Lovelass— and Weber, 

Matthews in Quotem — Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber- 
Thrice-worthy worthy ! seem by thee engross'd ! 
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast. 
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling, — 
And ease the bosom panics of indigestion I 

Thou art, sans question, 
The Corporation's love — its Doctor Darling I 
Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the Bed 

Which set dear Mrs Opie on supplying 
*' Illustrations of Lyvig !" 
Ninety square feet of down from heel to head 

It measured, and I dread 
Was haunted by a terrible night i4are, 
A monstrous burthen on the corporation !— 
Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's shar^ 
Sea-turtles by the score— Oxen by droves, 
Geese, turkeys, by the flock — fishes and loaves 

Countless, as when the Lilliputim nation 
Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration I 



IX. 

O worthy Doctor ! surely thou hast driven 

The squ.tting Demon from great Garratt's breast- 

(His honour seems to rest ! — ) 
And what is thy reward ? — Hath London given 
Thee public thanks for thy important service? 

Alas ! not even 
The tokens it bestow'd on Howe and Jervis !— 
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak 
Before the worsliipful the Common Council 
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill), 
Thou should'st not miss thy Freedom, for a week, 
Richly engross'd on vellum : — Reason urges 
That he who rules our cookery — that he 
Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be 
A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess I 

* The Doctor's composition for a nightcap. 



89 



ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ., 

SECRETARY TO THB SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDICITY.* 

" This is your charge— you shall comprehend all vagrom men." 

—Much Ado About Nothing, 



Hail, King of Shreds and Patches, haiL 

Disperser of the Poor ! 
Thou Dog in office, set to bark 

All beggars from the door I 



Great overseer of overseers, 

And Dealer in old rags I 
Thy public duty never fails, 

Thy ardour never flags I 

III. 

Oh, when I take my walks abroad, 

How many Poor I Jiiiss ! 
Had Doctor Watts walk'd now-a-days 

He would have written this 1 

IV. 

So well thy Vagrant catchers prow^ 
So clear thy caution keeps 

The path — O Bodkin ! sure thou hast 
The eye that never sleeps 1 



No Belisarius pleads for alms. 
No Benbow, lacking legs ; 

The pious man in black is now 
The only man that begs I 

VI. 

Street-Handels are disorganized, 
Disbanded every band ! — 

The silent scraper at the door 
Is scarce allow'd to stand ! 

* Written jointly with J. H. Reynoldi, 



90 TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 



VII. 



The Sweeper brushes with his broom. 
The Carstairs with his chrJk 

Retires, — the Cripple leaves his stand, 
But cannot sell his walk. 



VIII. 



The old Wall-blind resigns the wall, 
The Camels hide their humps, 

The Witherington without a leg 
Mayn't beg upon his stumps I 

IX. 

Poor Jack is gone, thnt used to doff 

His batter'd tatter'd hat, 
And show his danglinjj sleeve, alas 1 

There seem'd no arm in that I 

X. 

Oh ! was it such a sin to air 

His true blue naval rags, 
Glory's own trophy, like St Pauls, 

Hung round with holy flags ? 

XI. 

Thou knowest best. I meditate, 

My Bodkin — no offence ! 
Let us, henceforth, but nurse our poundi^ 

Thou dost protect our pence 1 

XII. 

Well art thou pointed 'gainst the Poor, 

For, when the Beggar Crew 
Bring their petitions, thou art paid, 

Of course, to " run them through.* 

XIII. 

Of course thou art what Hamlet meant— 

To wretches the last friend ; 
What ills can mortals have they can't 

With a bare Bodkin end ? 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES, 

(FIRST SERIES, 1 826/ 

' O Cicero I Cicero 1 if to pun be a crime, 'tis a crime I have learned of thee. O BiasI 
Bias I if to pun be a crime, by thy example 1 was biassed ! " — ScriblbkuSi 



DEDICATION TO THE REVIEWERS 

Wliat is a modern Poet's fate ? 
To write his thoughts upon a slate ;— 
The Critic spits on what is dune,— 
Gives it a wipe, — and all is gone. 




Very deaf, indeed. 

MORAL REFLECTIONS ON .THE CROSS OJi 
ST FA UL'S. * 



The man that pays his pence, and goes 
Up to thy lofty cross, St Paul, 
Looks over London's naked nose, 

•London Magazine, 1822, vol. v. p, 404, 



91 THE CROSS OF ST PA UL'S. 

Women and men : 
The world is ill beneath his kea — 
He sits above the Ball. 
He seems on Mount Olympus' top, 
Among the Gods, by Ju|)iter ! and lets drop 
His eyes from the empyreal clouds 
On mortal crowds. 



IL 

Seen from these skies, 
How small those emmets in our eyes 1 
Some carry little sticks — and one 
His eggs — to warm them in the sun : 

Dear ! what a hustle, 

And bustle ! 
And there's my aunt. I know her by her wais^ 

So long and thin, 

And so pinch'd in, 
Just in the pismire taste. 

IIL 

Oh ! what are men ? — Beings so small, 

That, should I fall 
Upon their little heads, I must 
Crush them by hundreds into dust I 

IV. 

And what is life and all its ages ? 

There's seven stages ! — 
Turnham Green ! Chelsea! Putney! Fulhaml 
Brentford ! and Kew ! 
And Tooting, too ! 
And oh ! what very little nags to pull 'era. 
Yet each would seem a horse indeed, 

If here at Paul's tip-top we'd got 'em ; 
Although, like Cinderella's breed, 

They're mice at bottom. 
Then let me not despise a horse, 
Though he looks small from Paul's high cross 1 
Since he would be, — as near the sky, 
— Fourteen hands high. 

V. 

What is this world with London in its lap? 

Mogg's Map. 
The Thames that ebbs and flows in its broad channel? 
A liily kennel. 



THE PR A YSE OF IGNORANCE. 91 

The bridges stretching from its banks ? 

Stone planks. 
Oh me ! hence could I read an admonition 

To mad Ambition ! 
But that he would not listen to my call, 
Though I should stand upon the cross, and ball I 



THE PR A YSE OF IGNORANCE: 

AN EXTRACT FROM AN ORATION DELIVERED BEFORE THE MOST GRAVE ANTl 
LEARNED FACULTY OF PADUA, BY THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON. 

NOW your Clowne knoweth none of the Booke-man's troubles, 
and his dayes be the longer ; for he doth not vault upon the 
fierie Pegasus, but jumpes merrilye upon old Ball, who is a carthorse, 
and singeth another man's song, which hath, it may be, thirty and six 
verses, and a burihen withal, and goes to a tune which no man knowes 
but himself. Aboe, he wooes the ruddye Cicely, which is not a Aiuse, 
but as comely a maide of fieshe as needes be, and many d;;intye 
ballades are made of their loves, as may be read in our Poets their 
Pastoralls ; only that therein he is called Damon, which standes for 
Roger, and Cicely, belike, is ycleped Sylvia, as belongs to their pas- 
torall abodes. Where they lead soe happye life as to stir up envye in 
the towne's women, who would fame become Snepherdesses by hook 
and by crook, and get green gownes and lay down upon the sweet ver- 
dant grass. Oh, how pleasauntly they sit all the daye long under a 
shady tree, to he^^r the \oung Inibes ; but at night they list n to the 
plaintive Philomell, and the gallaunts doe make them chappelets ; or, 
if it chance to be Mas, they goe a Mayinge, whilst the yonge buds 
smell sweetlye, and the littel birdes are u histlynge and hoppinge all 
about. 

Then Roger and Cicely sit adowne under the white haw-thorne, and 
he makes love to her in a shepherd-like w.iye, in the midst of her flocke. 
She doth not minde sheepe's-eyes. Even like Cupid and Psyche, as 
they are set forthe by a cunning Flemishe Limner, as hath been my 
hap to behold in the Low Countrye, wherein Cupid, with his one hand, 
is a toyinge with the haires of his head ; but, with the other, he hand- 
leth the fair neck of his mistresse, who sitteth discreetlye upcm a 
tiowene bank, and lookes down as beseemes upon her shoon ; for siie 
is vain of her modestye. This I have seen at the Hague. 

And Roger sayth, O Cicely, Cicely, how prettye you be ; whereat 
she doth open her mouth, and smiles loudly ; which, when he heares, 
he sayth again, Nay, but I doe love thee passing well, and with that 
lays a loud buss upon her cheek, which cannot blushe by reason of its 
perfect ruddynesse. Anon, he spreadeth in her lap the pink ribbands 
which he bought at the wake, for her busking, and alsoe a great cake 
of gmger brear, which causeth her heart to be in her moutlie. 'I hen, 
qudth he, Tlie utile Robins have got their mates, and ti e pieiise 
finches be ^ii puued, and why shoide not we ? And, quoth she, as 



94 THE PRA YSE OF IGNORANCE. 

he kisseth her, O Robin, Robin, you be such a sweet-bi/Ied bird, that 
I must needes crye " Aye." Wherefore, on the Sundaye, they go to 
the Parishe Churche, that they may be joyncd into one, and be no 
more single. Whither they walk tenderlye upon their toes, as if they 
stepped all the wave upon egges. And Roger hath a brave bowpot at 
his bosom, which is full of Heart's Ease ; but Cicely is decked with 
ribbands, a knot here, and a knot there, and her head is furnished 
after a daintye fashion, soe that she wishes, belike, that she was Roger, 
to see herselfe all round about, — and content her eyes upon her own 
devices. Whereas, Roger smells to his nosegaye ; but his looks travel, 
as the crabbe goeth, which is side-wayes, towards Cicely ; and he 
smiles sweetlye, to think how that he is going to be made a husband- 
man, and alsoe of the good cheere which there will be to eat that daye. 
Soe he walks up to the altar with a stout harte ; and when the parson 
hath made an ende, he kisseth Cicely ifreshe, and their markes are 
registered as man and wife in the church bokes. ' 

After which, some threescore yeares, it may befall you to light on a 
grave-stone, and, on the wood thereof, to read as foUoweth : — 

" Here I bee, Roger Rackstrawe, which did live at Dipmore Ende, 
of this Parishe — but no^ in this tomb. 

" Time was that I did sowe and plough, 
That lyes beneathe the furrowes now ; 
But thou;^h Death .sowes me with his grainO) 
1 knowe that 1 shall spring againe." 

Now is not this a life to be envyde, which needeth so many men's 
paynes to paint its pleasures? For, saving the Law clerkes, it is set 
forth by all that write upon sheepe's skins, even the makers of pastor- 
alls : wherein your Clowne is constantly a figure of Poetry, — being 
all w ayes amongst the leaves. He is their Jack-i'-the-Green. — Where- 
fore I crye, for my owne part. Oh ! that I were a Boore ! Oh ! that I 
were a Boore ! that troubleth no man, and is troubled of none. Who 
;$ written, wherein he cannot read, and is mayde into Poetry, that yet 
is no Poet ; for how sholde he make songs, that knoweth not King 
Cadmus his alphabet, to pricke them down withal ? — 

Seeing that he is nowayes learnede — nor hath never bitten of the 
Apple of Knowledge, which was but a sowre crabbe apple, whereby 
Adam his wisdom-teeth were set on edge. Wherefore, he is much more 
a happye man, saving unto his lusty yonge Dame, We twaine be one 
fleshe. — But the Poet sayth to his mate, Thou art skin of my skin, and 
bone of my bone ; soe that this saying is not a paradoxe, — That the 
Boke Man is a Dunce in bemg Wise, — and the Clowne is wise in 
being a Dunce. 



^Mctku^ 



95 




Miss Treo. 



A VALENTINE. 



Oh ! cruel heart ! ere these posthumous papers 
Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of lareath ; 

Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers. 
Have only lighted me the way to death. 

Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vnpours, 
When I am gone, and green grass covereth 

Thy lover, lost ; but it will be in vain — 

It will not bring the vital spark again. 

II, 

Ah ! when those eyes, like tapers, burn'd so blue, 
It seem'd an omen that we must expect 

The sprites of lovers ; and it boded true. 
For I am half a sprite — a ghost elect ; 

Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu, 
With my last pen — before that 1 effect 

My exit from the stage ; just =;topp'd before 

The tombsto « steps that lead us to Death's door. 



96 A VALENTINE. 



III. 



Full soon these living eyes, now liquid bright, 
Will turn dend dull, and wear no radiance, save 

They shed a dreary and inhuman light, 

Illumed within by glow-worms of the grave • 

These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, 
These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, 

Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, 

Must bid farewell, a long farewell to flesh I 

IV. 

Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee, 
As broken victuals to the worms will go ; 

And all the world will dine a'_;ain but me — 
For I shall have no stomadi ; — and I know, 

When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be 
As now thou art : but will not tears of woe 

Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct, 

When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct ? 

V. 

And when thy soul is buried in a sleep. 
In midnight solitude, and little dreamingf 

Of such a spectre — what, if I should creep 
Within thy presence in such dismal seeming? 

Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep, 
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming, 

And pray, with mingled penitence and dread, 

That I were less alive — or not so dead. 

VI. 

Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove 
This wilful homicide which thou hast done : 

And the sad epitaph of so much love 
Will eat into thy heart, as if in stone : 

And all the lovers that around thee move 

Will read my fate, and tremble for their own; 

And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, 

*♦ Man, born of woman, must of woman die 1" 

VII. 

Mine eyes grow dropsical — I can no more ; 

And what is written thou mny'st scorn to read. 
Shutting thy tearless eyes. — 'Tis done — 'tis o'er — 

My hand is destined for another deed. 
But one last word, wrung from its aching core, 

And mv lone heart in silcntness will bleed ; 
Alas ! it ouL;ht to take a life to tell 
That one last word — that fare— fare — fare thee well i 



w 



LOVE. 



O Love 1 what art thou, Love ? — the ace of hearts, 

Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits | 
A player, masquerading many parts 

In life's odd carnival ; — a boy that shoots, 
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; 

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ; 
The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real— 
A marriageable maiden's " beau ideal." 

O Love ! what art thou, Love ?— a wicked thin^, 
Making green misses spoil their work at school ; 

A melancholy man, cross-gartering ? 

Grave, ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool ? 

A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring ? 
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool ? 

A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, 

Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel? 

Love ! what art thou. Love ? — one that is bad 
With palpitations of the heart — like mine— 

A poor bewilder'd maid, making so sad 
A necklace of her garters — fell design I 

A poet, gone unreasonably mad, 

Endmg his sonnets with a hempen line ? 

O Love ! — but whither now ? forgive me, pray } 

I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. 




SiB 




" Rich and tare were the gems she wore." 



*' PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE:** 



I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore : — 
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty ^nrl's door ; 
So he call'd upon Lucy — 'twas just ten o'clock — 
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. 



Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at, 
Will run like a puss when she henrs a r«/-tat : 
So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
Had question'd the stranger, and answer'd the door. 



in. 

The meeting was bliss : but the parting was woe ; 
For the moment will come when such comers must go ; 
So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd — poor innocent thing — 
•* The next time you come, love, pray come with si ring." 

* London Magazine, January 1822, 



99 




"The Cook's Otada" 



A RECIFE— FOR CIVILISATION. 



The following Poem— is from the Pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER !— the 
most heterogeneous of Authors, but at the same time — in the Sporting 
Latin of Mr Egan, — a real 'Homo-s^enms, or a Genius of a Man ! In 
the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual, boils over f and 
malces it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle) — 
with the Spit in one hand ! — and the Frying-Pan in the other, — while in 

tlie style of the rliymes it is Hudibrastic, as if in the ingredients of 

Versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER ! 

A.S a Head Coolv, 0[Uician— Physician, ^Tusic Master — Domestic Economist 
and Death-bed Attorney ! — I have celelirated The Author elsewhere with 

approbation : — And cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet, 

without still being his LAUDER, a plirase which those persons whose 
course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on Thi 
Immortal Bard of Avon ! — will find easy to understand. 

Surely, those sages err who teach 

That mm is known from brutes by speech. 

Which hardly severs man from woman, 

But not th' inhuman from the human, — 

Or else might parrots claim affinity, 

And dogs be doctors by latinity, — 

Not t' insist (as might be shown), 

That beasts have gibberish of their own, 



100 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. 

Which once was no dead tongue, though we 

Since ^sop's days have lost the key ; 

Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not 

Beasts that could gossip though they will not, 

But play at dummy like the monkeys, 

For fear mankind should make them flunkeys» 

Neither can man be known by feature 

Or form, because so like a creature, 

That some grave men could never shape 

Which is the aped and which the ape ; 

Nor by his gait, nor by his height. 

Nor yet because he's black or white. 

But rational, — for so we call 

The only Cooking Animal ! 

The only one who brings his bit 

Of dinner to the pot or spit, 

For where's the lion e'er was hasty 

To put his venison in a pasty ? 

Ergo, by logic, we repute. 

That he who cooks is not a brute,— 

But Equus brutum est, which means. 

If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans J 

Nay, no one but a horse would forage 

On naked oats instead of porridge, 

Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary, 

The difference is culinary. 

Further, as man is known by feeding 

From brutes, — so men from men, in breeding. 

Are still distinguish'd as they eat, 

And raw in manner's raw in meat, — 

Look at the polish'd nations, hight 

The civilized — the most polite 

Is that which bears the praise of nations 

For dressing eggs two humhed fashions ; 

Whereas, at savage feeders look, — 

The less refined the less they cook ; 

From Tartar grooms, that merely straddle 

Across a steak and warm their saddle, 

Down to the Abyssinian squaw. 

That bolts her chops and collops raw, 

And, like a wild beast, cares as little 

To dress her person as her victual, — 

For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets, 

Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets, 

And not by shamble bodies put on, 

But those who roast and boil their mutton { 

So Eve and Adam wore no dresses 

Because they lived on water-cresses. 

And till they learn'd to cook their crudities 

Went blind as beetles to their nudities. 

For niceness comes from t)\' inner side 

(As an ox is drest before h's hide), 



A RECIPE—FOR CIVILISATION. ..joi 

And when the entrail loathes vulgarity 

The outward man will soon cull rarity, 

For 'tis th' effect of what we eat 

To make a man look like his meat, 

As insects show their food's complexions ; 

Thus fopling's clothes are like confections 

But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb, 

Would have an Abyssinian ox come? — 

Or serve a dish of fricassees, 

To clodpoles in a coat of frieze ? 

Whereas a black would call for buffalo 

Alive— and, no doubt, eat the offal too. 

Now (this premised) it follows then 

That certain culinary men 

Should tirst go forth with pans and spits 

To bring the heathens to their wits 

(For all wise Scotchmen of our century 

Know that first steps are alimentary ; 

And, as we have proved, flesh pots and saucepans 

Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans) ; 

But Bunyan err'd to think the near gate 

To take man's soul was battering Ear gate 

When reason should have work'd her cour'se 

As men of war do — when their force 

Can't take a town by open courage, 

They steal an entry with its forao^e. 
What reverend bishop, for example, 
Could preach horn'd Apis from his temple ? 
Whereas a cook would soon unseat him, 
And make his own churchwardens eat him. 
Not Irving could convert those vermin 
Th' Anthropophages by a sermon ; 
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice. 

Would " take a shin of beef and spice,* 

And raise them such a savoury smother, 

No Negro would devour his brother, 

But turn his stomach round as loth 

As Persians, to the old black broth, — 

For knowledge oftenest makes an entry, 

As well as true love, through the panrry, 

Where beaux that came at first for feeding " 

Grow gallant men and get good breeding ; 

Exempli gratia— in the West, 
Ship-traders say there swims a nest 
Lined with black natives, like a rookery, 

But coarse as carrion crows at conkery. 

This race, though now call'd O, Y. E. men 
(To show they are more than A. B. C. men), 

• Cook to the late Sir Joseph Banks. 



lOa A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. 

Was once so ignorant of our knacks 
They laid their mats upon their backs, 
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon 
On trees that baked them in the sunshine. 
As for their bodies, they were coated 
(For painted things are so denoted) ; 
But, the naked truth is, stark primevals, 
That said their prayers to timber devils, 
Allow'd polygamy — dwelt in wigwams, — 
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams.' 




*' Son of the sleepless.' 



And why ? — because their savage nook 
Had ne'er been visited by Cook, — 
And so they fared till our great chief 
Brought them, not Methodists, but beef , 
In tubs, — and taught them how to live. 
Knowing it was too soon to give, 
Just then, a homily on their sins 
(For cooking ends ere grace begins). 
Or hand his tracts to the untraclable 
Till they could keep a more exact table — 
For Nature has her proper courses, 
And wild men must be back'd like horses, 
Which, jockeys know, are never fit 
For riding till they've had a bit 



A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION^. IC3 

I' the mouth ; but tlien, with proper tackle, 
You may trot them to a tabernacle; 
Ergo (I say) he first made changes 
In the heathen modes by kitchen ranges, 
And taught the king's cook, by convincmg 
Process, that chewing was not mincing, 
And in her black fist thrust a bundle 
Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell, 
Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits, 
She saw the spareness of her habits, 
And round her loins put on a striped 
Towel, where fingers might be wiped, 
And then her breast clothed like her ribs 
(For aprons lead of course to bibs), 
And, by the time she had got a meat- 
Screen, veil'd her back, too, from the heat ; 
As for her gravies and her sauces 
(Though they reform'd the royal fauces), 
Her forcements and ragofits, — I praise not, 
Because the legend furlher says not, 
Except, she kept each Christian high-day. 
And once upon a fat good Fry-day 
Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan 
Ihai turn'd the spit, to chop up Dagon I 




104 







^^is^^ 



"Tell me, my heart, can this be Love?'* 



ON THE POPULAR CUPID. 



THE figure above was copied, by permission, from a lady's Valen- 
tine. To the common apprehension it represents only a miracle 
of stall-feeding — a babe-Lambert — a caravan-prodigy of grossness, — 
but, in the romantic mythology, it is the image of the Divinity of 
Love. 

In sober verity, — does such an incubus oppress the female bosom? 
Can such a monster of obesity be coeval with the gossamer natures 
of Sylph and Fairy in the juvenile faith ? Is this he — the buoy.mt 
Camdeo,— that, in the minds eye of the poetess, drifts adown the 
Ganges m a lotos — 

'* Pillow'd in a lotos flower 
Gather'd in a summer hour, 
Floats he o'er the moumain wave, 
\Vhich would be a tall ship's grave?" 

Is this personage the disproportionate partner for whom Pastorella 
sij^heth, — in the smallest of cots ? Does the platonic Amanda (who is 
all soul) refer", in her discourses on Love, to this p.ilpable being, who 
is all body ? Or does Belinda, indeed, believe that such a substahtial 
Sagittarius lies ambushed in her perilous blue eye ? 

It is in the legend thnt a girl of Provence was smitten once, and 
'led, by the marble Apollo : but did impassioned damsel ever dote. 



THE LAST MAN. 



MOS 



and wither, beside the pedestal of this preposterous effigy? or rather, 
is not the unseemly emblem accountable for the coyness and pro- 
verbial reluctance of maidens to the approaches of Love ? 

I can beheve in his dwelhng alone in the heart — seeing that he 
must occupy it to repletion ; — in his constancy, because he looks 
sedentary and not apt to roam. That he is given to melt — from his 
great pinguitude. That he burneth with a flame, for so all fat burneth — 
and hath languishings— like other bodies of his tonnage. That he 
sighs — from his size. 

1 dispute not his kneeling at ladies' feet — since it is the posture of 
elephants, — nor his promise that the homage shall remain eternal. I 
doubt not of his dying, — being of a corpulent habit, and a short neck. — 
Of his blindness — with that inflated pig's cheek. But for his lodging 
in Belinda's blue eye, my whole faith is heretic— /i?;- she fiath mver a 
sty in it, 




'The Last Man." 



THE LAST MAN, 



'TWAS in the year two thousand and one, 

A pleasant morning of May, 

I sit on the gallows-tree, all alone, 

A chaunting a merry lay, — 

To think how the pest had snared my life, 

To sing with the larks that day ! 



106 THE LAST MANi 

When up the heath came a jolly knave^ 
Like a scarecrow, all in rags : 
It made me crow to see his old duds 
All abroad in the wind, like flags : — 
So up he came to the timber's foot 
And pitch'd down his greasy bags. 

Good Lord ! how blythe the old beggar was I 

At pulling out his scraps, — 

The very sight of his broken orts 

Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : 

" Come down," says he, " you Newgate bird. 

And have a taste of my snaps ! " 

Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, 

I slided, and by him stood ; 

But I wish'd myself on the gallows again 

When I smelt that beggar's food — 

A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ; 

" Oh !" quoth he, " the heavens are good I* 

Then after this grace he cast him down : 

Says I, " You'll get sweeter air 

A pace or two off', on the windward side,* 

For the felons' bones lay there. 

But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls, 

And ofifer'd them part of his fare. 

" I never harm'd ihe7ft, and they won't harm me I 

Let the proud and the rich be cravens !" 

I did not like that strange beggar-man, 

He look'd so up at the heavens. 

Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; 

"There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens I" 

It made me angry to see his face, 

It had such a jesting look ; 

But while I made up my mind to speak, 

A small case-bottle he took : 

Quoth he, " Thou;4h I gather the green watercress. 

My drink is not of the brook ! " 

Full manners-like he tender'd the dram ; 

Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! 

But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, 

" Your leave, good sir, I must ask ; 

But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve, 

When a hangman sups at my flask! " 



THE LAST MAN, in| 

And then he laugh'd so loudly and long, 

The churl was quite out of breath ; 

I thought the very Old One was come 

To mock me before my death, 

And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones 

That were lying about the heath 1 

But the beggar gave me a jolly clap— 
" Come, let us pledge each other, 
For all the wide world is dead beside, 
And we are brother and brother — 
I've a yearning for thee in my heart. 
As if we had come of one mother. 

** I've a yearning for thee in my heart 
That almost makes me weep, 
For as I pass'd from town to town 
The folks were all stone-asleep, — 
But when I saw thee sitting aloft, 
It made me both laugh and leap I * 

Now a curse (I thought) be on his love. 

And a curse upon his mirth, — 

An' it were not for that beggar-man 

I'd be the King of the earth, — 

But I promised myself an hour should come 

To make him rue his birth ! 



So down we sat and boused again 

Till the sun was in mid-sky. 

When, just when the gentle west wind came^ 

We hearken'd a dismal cry ; 

** Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar-man, 

** Till those horrible dogs go by ! " 

And, lo ! from the forest's far-off skirts 

They came all yelling for gore, 

A hundred hounds pursuing at once, 

And a panting hart before, 

Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot, 

And there his haunches they tore ! 

His haunches they tore, without a horn 
To tell when the chase was done ; 
And there was not a single scarlet coat 
To flaunt it in the sun ! 
I turn'd, and look'd at the heu'gar-man, 
And his tears dropt one by one 1 



poB THE LAST MAN. 

And with curses sore he chid at the hound% 

Till the last dropt out of sight ; 

Anon, saith he, '' Let's down again 

And ramble for our delight, 

For the world's all free, and we may choose 

A right cozie barn for to-night ! " 



With that, he set up his staff on end. 
And it fell wiih the point due west ; 
So we fared that way to a city great, 
Where the folks had died of the pest- 
It was fine to enter in house and hall. 
Wherever it liked me best ! 

For the porters all were stiff and cold, 

And could not lift their heads ; 

And when he came where their masters lay, 

The rats leapt out of the beds ; 

The grandest palaces in the land 

Were as free as workhouse sheds. 

But the beggar-man made a mumping face^ 

And knocked at every gate : 

It m <de me curse to hear how he whined. 

So our fellowship turn'd to hate. 

And I bade him walk the world by hims If, 

For I scorn'd so humble a mate 1 

So he turn'd right, and / turn'd left, 

As if we had never met ; 

And I chose a fair stone house for myself, 

For the city was all to let ; 

And for three brave holydays drank my fill 

Of the choicest that I could get. 

And because my jerkin was coarse and worn, 

I got me a properer vest ; 

It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold. 

And a shining star at the breast ! — 

'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave 

To see me so purely drest 1 

But Joan was dead and under the mould, 

And every buxom lass ; 

In vain I watch'd, at the window pane. 

For a Christian soul to pass ! 

But sheep and kine wander'd up the street, 

And biowsed on the new-come grass. 



THE LAST MAN, I09 

When lo ! I spied the old beggar-man, 

And lustily he did sing ! 

His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak, 

And a crown he had like a King ; 

So he stepp'd right up before my gate, 

And danced me a saucy fling ! 

Heaven mend us all ! — but, within my mind, 
I had kill'd him then and there ; 
To see him lording so br .ggart-like 
Thrit was born to his beggar's fare, 
And how he had stolen the royal crown 
His betters were meant to wear. 



But God forbid that a thief should die 

Without his share of the laws I 

So I nimbly whipt my tackle out. 

And soon tied up his claws, — 

I was judge, myself, and jury, and all, 

And solemnly tried the case. 

But the beggar-man would not plead, but cried 

Like a babe without its corals, 

For he knew how hard it is apt to go 

When the law and a thief have quarrels,— 

There was not a Christian soul alive 

To speak a word for his morals. 

Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear, 

And put on my work-day clothes ; 

I was tired of such a long Sunday life, 

And never was one of the sloths ; 

But the beggar-man grumbled a weary dealf 

And made many crooked mouths. 

So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot, 

And blinded him in his bags ; 

'Twas a weary job to heave him up, 

For a doom'd man always lags ; 

But by ten of the clock he was off his legs 

In the wind, and airmg his rags ! 

So there he hun?, and there I stood. 
The LAST MAN left alive, 
To have my own will of all the earths 
Quoth I, "Now I shall thrive !" 
But when was ever honey made 
With one bee in a hive ? 



iie THE LAST MAN. 

My conscience began to gnaw my heart 

Before the day was done, 

For other men's li\es had all gone out, 

Like candles in llie sun ! — 

But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last, 

A thousand necks in one ! 



So I went and cut his body down 

To bury it decentlie ; — 

God send there were any good soul alive 

To do the like by me ! 

But the wild dogs came with terrible speed, 

And bay'd me up the tree ! 

My sight was like a drunkard's sight. 
And my head began to swim, 
To see their jaws all white with foam, 
Like the ravenous ocean brim ; — 
But when the wild dogs trotted away, 
Their jaws were bloody and grim! 

Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord I 

But the beggar-man, where was he ? — 

There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags 

Below the gnllows' tree ! — 

I know the Devil, when I am dead, 

Will send his hounds for me ! 

I've buried my babies one by one, 
And dug the deep hole for Joan, 
And covered the faces of kith and kitu 
And felt the old churchyard stone 
Go cold to my heart full many a time» 
But I never felt so lone ! 



For the lion and Ad im were company. 
And the tiger him beguiled ; 
But the simple kinc are foes to my life, 
And the household brutes are wild. 
If the veriest cur would lick my hand, 
I could love it like a child I 

And the beggar-mnn's ghost besets my dreams, 

At night, to make me madder, — 

And my wretched conscience, within my breast, 

Is like a stinging adder ; — 

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot, 

And look at the rope and ladder ! — 



THE LA^ man: 

For hanging looks sweet, — but, alas ! in vaia 

My desperate fancy begs, — 

I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up, 

And drink it to the dregs, — 

For there's not another man alive 

In the world to pull my legs ! 



Ill 



^ 




t ^ HH 



*' Pigmy aud Crane." 



W2 




Christmas Paiuoniime. 



THE BALLAD OF ''SALLY BROWN, AND BEN 

THE carpenter:' 



I HAVE never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the following Ballad. 
Dr Watts, amongst evan;^elical nurses, has an enviable renown — and 
Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug genteel popularity. " Sally Brown " has 
been tavoured, yjerhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral Songs, 
though its circle may not have been of so select a class as the friends of 
" Hohenlinden." But I do not desire to see it amongst what are called 
Elegant Extracts. The lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at 
his last mortal Benefit at Covent Garden ; — and, ever since, it has been 
a great favourite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, 
as the wherry-men of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the 
waiernien, it went naturally to Vauxliall : — and, over land, to Sadler's 
Wells. The Guards, not the mail coach, but the Life Guards, — picked it 
out from a fluttering hundred of others — all going to one air- — against the 
dead wall at Knightshridge. Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane and Cow- 
cross, (all pirates !) disputed about the Copyright, and published their 
own editions, — and, in the meantime, the Authors, to have made bread 
of their song (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient case !) must have 
sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of Literature ! the profits of 
"Sally Brown" were divided by the Ballad Mongers: — it has cost, but 
has never brought me, a halfpenny. 



113 

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN, 

AN OLD BALLAD.* 

Young Ben he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade ; 
And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 

That was a lady's maid. 

But as they fetch'd a walk one day, 

They met a press-gang crew ; 
And Sally she did faint away, 

Whilst Ben he was brought to. 

The Boatswain swore with wicked wordSy 

Enough to shock a saint, 
That though she did seem in a fit, 

'Twas nothing but a feint. 

" Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, 

He'll be as good as me ; 
For when your swain is in our boat, 

A boatswain he will be." 

So when they'd made their game of her, 

And taken off her elf, 
She roused, and found she only was 

A coming to herself. 

• And is he gone, and is he gone ?• 

She cried, and wept outright : 

* Then I will to the water side. 
And see him out of sight." 

A waterman came up to her, 

" Now, young woman," said he, 
" If you weep on so, you will make 

Eye-water in the sea." 

** Alas ! they've taken my beau Ben 

To sail with old Benbow ; " 
And her woe began to run afresh. 

As if she'd said Gee woe ! 

• Printed in the London Magazine (1822), vol. v. p. 203, 

H 



1X4 SALLY BROWJf. 

Says he, " They've only taken him 

To \\\?: Tencier-ship, you see ;" 
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, 
" What a hard-ship that must be I 

" Oh ! would I were a mermaid now, 
For then I'd follow him ; 

But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman. 
And so I cannot swim. 

**Alas ! I was not born beneath 
The Virgin and the Scales, 

So I must curse my criiel stars, 
And walk about in Wales.** 

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place 
That's underneath the world ; 

But in two years the ship came hoRie^ 
And all her sails were furl'd. 

But when he call'd on Sally Brown, 
To see how she went on. 

He found she'd got another Ben, 
"Whose Christian name was John, 

"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown I 
How could you serve me so ? 

I've met with many a breeze before, 
But never such a blow ! " 

Then reading on his 'bacco-boi^ 

He heaved a bitter sigh. 
And then began to eye his pipe, 

And then to pipe his eye. 

And then he tried to sing " All's Well," 
But could not though he tried ; 

His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd 
His pigtail till he died. 

His death, which happen'd in his birth. 

At forty-odd befell : 
They went and told the sexton, and 
The sexton toU'd the bell. 




O my bonnie, bonnie Bet ! ' 



BACKING THE FAVOURITE. 

Oh a pistol, or a knife ! 
For I'm weary of my life, — 

My cup has nothin^^ sweet left to flavour it ; 
My estate is out at nurse, 
And my heart is like my purse,— 

And all through backing of the Favourite ! 

At dear O'Neil's first start, 
I sported ;ill my heart, — 

Oh, Becher, he never marr'd a braver hit I 
For he cross'd her in her race. 
And made her lose her pLice, 

And there was an end of that Favourite I 

Anon, to mend my chance, 
For the Goddess of the D mce* 

I pined, and told my ensla.er it ! — 
But she wedded m a canter, 
And made me a Levanter, ' 

In foreign lands to si-h for the Favourite ! 

* The late favourite of the King's Theatre, who left the pas j^/ of life foi 
a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effi.i^y now commonly borne about by the 
Italian miage vendors-an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands 
above her head-and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot ? 



ri6 A COMPLAINT AG AINS7 GREATNESS. , 

Then next Miss M. A. Tree 
I adored, so sweetly she 

Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it,^- 
But she left that course of life 
To be Mr Bradshaw's wife, 

And all the world lost on the Favourite ! 

But out of sorrow's surf 
Soon I leap'd upon the turf, 

Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it ; — 
But standing on the pet, 
*' O my bonnie, bonnie Bet ! " 

Black and yellow puU'd short up with the Favourite ! 

Thus flung by all the crack, 
I resolved to cut the pack, — 

The second-raters seem'd then a safer hit ! 
So I laid my little odds 
Against Memnon ! O ye Gods ! 

Am I always to be floor'd by the Favourite 1 




" Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt 1 ' 



A COMPLAINT AGAINST GREATNESS. 

I AM an unfortunate creature, the most wretched of all that groan 
under the burden of the flesh. I am fainting, as thev sav of kings, 
under my oppressive greatness. A miserable Adas, I sink under the 
world of — myself. 



A COMPLAINT AGAINS T GREA TNESS. Iiy 

But the curious will liere ask me for my name. I am, then, or they 
say I am, "The Reverend Mr Farmer, a four-years' old Durham Ox, 
fed by himself, upon oil-cake and mangel-wurzel:" but I resemble 
th.it worthy agricultural Vicar only in my fat living. In plain truth, 
I am an unhappy candidate for the show at Sadler's — not " the Wells," 
but the Repository. They tell me I am to bear the bell (as if I had 
not enough to bear already !) by my surpassing tonnage — and, doubt- 
less, the pzize-emblem will be proportioned to my uneasy merits. With 
a great Tom of Lincoln about my neck — alas ! what will it comfort 
me to have been '' commended by the judges .'"' 

Wearisome and painiul was my pilgrim-like progress to this place, 
by short and tremulous steppings, like the digit's march upon a dial. 
My owner, jealous of my fat, procured a crippled drover, with a 
withered limb, for my conductor ; but even he hurried me beyond my 
breath. I'he drawling hearse left me labouring behind ; the ponderous 
fly-waggon passed me like a bird upon the road, so tediously slow is 
my pace. It just sufficeth, O ye thrice-happy Oysters ! that have no 
locomotive faculty at ail, to distinguish that I am not at rest. Wher- 
ever the grass grew by the wayside, how it tempted my natural long- 
ings — the cool brook flowed at my very foot, but this short thick neck 
forbade me to eat or drink : nothing but my redundant dewlap is 
likely ever to graze on the ground ! 

If stalls and troughs were not extant, I must perish. Nature has 
given to the Elephant a long flexible tube, or trunk, so that he can 
feed his mouth, as it were, by his nose ; but is man able to furnish 
me with such an implement? Or would he noi still withhold it, lest 
I should prefer the green herb, mv natural delicious diet, and reject his 
rank, unsavoury condiments.'' What beast, with free will, but would 
repair to the sneet me.idow for its pasture : and yet how grossly is he 
labelled and libelled? Your bovine servant, in the catalogue, is a 
" Durham 0\,fed by himself {^s if he had any election), upon oilcake.' 

I wonder wliat rapacious Cook, with an eye to her insatiable grease- 
pot and kitchen perquisites, gave the hint of this system of stall- 
feeding ! What unctuous Hull Merchant, or candle-loving Muscovite, 
made this grossness a desideratum ? If mine were, indeed, like the fat 
of the tender sucking-pig, that delicate gluten ! there would be reason 
for its unbounded promotion; but to see the prize steak, loaded with 
that rank yellow abfimination(the lamplighters know its relish), might 
wean a man from carnivorous habits for ever. Verily, it is an abuse 
of the Christmas holly, the emblem of Old English and wholesome 
cheer, to plant it upon such blubber. A gentlemanly entrail must lie 
driven to extreme straits, indeed (Davis's Straits), to feel any yearnings 
for such a meal ; and yet I am told that an assembly of gentry, with 
all the celebrations of full bumpers and a blazing chimney-pot, have 
honoured tiie brniled slices of a prize bullock, a dishful of stringy 
fibres, an animal cabbage-net, and that rank even hath been satisfied 
wiih its rankness. 

Will the honourable club, whose aim it is thus tn make the beastly 
nature more lieastlv, consider of this matter? Will the humane, when 
they provide against the torm: nts of cats and dogs, take no notice oi 
our condition ? Nature, to the whales, and creatures of their cor- 



Il8 



THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 



pulence, has assigned the cool deeps ; but we have no such refuse in 

our meltings. At least, let the stall-feeder confine his system to the 
uncleanly swine which chews not the cud ; for let tlie worthy members 
conceive on the palate of imaj^ination, the abominable returns of the 
refuse-linseed in our after ruminations. Oh, let us not suffer m vain ! 
h may seem presumption in a brute to question the human wisdom ; 
but. truly, I cnn perceive no beneficial ends, worthy to be set otf 
against our suiferings. There must be, methinks, a nearer way of 
augmenting the perquisites of the kitchen-wench and the fire-man, — 
of killing frogs, — than by exciting them, at the expense of us poor 
blown-up oxen, to a mortal inflation. 




' All's well that ends well. 



THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 



" AI.Ts I what perils do environ 
The man that meddles with .1 siren."— Hudibras. 



On Margate beach, where the sick one roams, 

And the sentimental reads ; 
Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes- 

Like the ocean — to cast her weeds ; 

Where urchins wander to pick up shells, 
And the Cit to s)>y at the ships, — 

Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells, — 
And the Chandler for watery dips ; — 



THE MERMAID OF MARGATE, "S 

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, 

As lovely and fair as Sin ! 
But woe, deep water and woe to him, 

That she snareth like Peter Fin ! 

Her head is crown'd with pretty sea-wares, 

And her locks are golden and loose : 
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs. 

To stand, of course, in her shoes ! 

And all day long she combeth them well. 

With a sea-shark's prickly jaw ; 
And her mouth is just like a rose-lipp'd shell. 

The fairest that man e'er saw ! 

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be^ 

Hath planted his seat by her side ; 
** Good even, fair maid ! Is thy lover at sea, 

To make thee so watch the tide ?" 

She turn'd about with her pearly brows, 

And clasp'd him by the hand ; 
"Come, love, with me ; I've a bonny house 

On the golden Goodwin Sand." 

And then she gave him a siren kiss, 

No honeycomb e'er was sweeter : 
Poor wretch I how little he dreamt for this 

That Peter should be salt-Peter ! 

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, 

Not walking, as damsels do, 
With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept. 

But she hopp'd like a Kangaroo ! 

One plunge, and then the victim was blind. 

Whilst they gallop'd across the tide ; 
At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, 

And the Beauty was by his side. 

One half on the sand, and half in the sea. 

But his hair all be;,'an to stiffen ; 
For when he lonk'd where her feet should b^ 

She had no more feet than Miss Biffen I 

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth. 

In the dabijling brine did sOck : 
At last she open'd her pearly mouth, 

Like an oyster, and thus she spoke ; 



120 THE MERMaID of MARGA TE. 

" You crimp'd my father, who was a skate,—* 
And my sister you sold — a maid ; 

So here remain for a fishery fate, 
For lost you are, and betray'd !" 

And away she went, with a seas^ull's scream. 

And a splash of her saucy tail ; 
In a moment he lost the silvery i;leam 

That shone on her splendid mail ! 

The sun went down with a blood-red flame, 
And the sky grew cloudy and black, 

And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came. 
Each over the other's back ! 

Ah me ! it hnd been a beautiful scene, 

With a safe terra-firma round ; 
But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him 

Like those in a churchyard ground ; 

And Christians love in the turf to lie, 

Not in watery graves to be ; 
Nay, the very fishes will sooner die 

On the land than in the sea. 

And whilst he stood, the watery strife 

Encroach'd on every hand. 
And the ground decreased,— his moments of life 

Seem'd measured, like Time's, by sand ; 

And still the waters foam'd in, like ale, 

In front and on either flank ; 
He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail, 

There was such a run on the bank. 

A little more, and a little more, 

The surges came tumbling in ; 
He sang the evening hymn twice o'er, 

And thought of every sin ! 

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his hear^ 

As cold as his marble slab ; 
And he thought he felt, in every part, 

The pincers of scalded crab ! 

The squealing lobsters that he had boil'd. 

And the little potted shrimps, 
AH the horny prawns he had ever spoil'd, 

Gnaw'd into his soul, like imps 1 



THE MERMAID OF MARGA TB. m 

And the billows were wandering to and fro, 

And the glorious sun was sunk. 
And Day, getting black in the face, as though 

Of the night-shade she had drunk 1 

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, 

One tub, or keg, to be seen, 
It might have given his spirits a lift, 

Or an anker where Hope might lean ! 

But there was not a box or a beam afloat, 

To raft him from that sad place ; 
Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel-boat, 

Nor a smack upon Neptune's face. 

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy. 

He saw a sail and a mast. 
And call'd " Ahoy ! "—but it was not a hoy, 

And so the vessel went past 

And with saucy wing that flapp'd in his face, 

The wild bird about him flew, 
With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case, 

** Why, thou art a sea-gull too 1 " 

And lo ! the tide was over his feet ; 

Oh ! his heart began to freeze, 
And slowly to pulse : — in another beat 

The wave was up to his knees ! 

He was deafen'd amidst the mountain-tops, 

And the salt spray blinded his eyes. 
And wash'd away the other salt drops 

That grief had caused to arise ; — 

But just as his body was all afloat, 

And the surtjes above him broke, 
He was saved from the hungrv deep by a boat 

Of Deal— (but builded of oak). 

The skipper ga've him a dram, as he lay, 

And chafed his shivering skin : 
And the Angel return'd that was flying away 

With the spirit of Peter Fin J 



122 




cur 



"My son, sir.' 



MY SON-, SIR. 

IT happened, the other evening, that, intending to call at L 
Street, I arrived a few minutes before Hyson ; when W * * *, 
sented beside the Urn, his eyes shaded by his hand, was catechising 
his learned prodigy, the Master Hopeful, as if for a tea-table degree. 
It was a whimsical contrast between the fretful, pouting visage of the 
urchin, having his gums rubbed so painfully, to bring forward his 
w isdom-tooth — and the parental visage, sage, solemn, and satisfied, 
and appealing ever and anon, by a dramatic side-look, to the circle of 
sniiri-;ing auditors. 

W * * * was fond of this kind of display, eternally stirring up the 
child for exhiliition with his troublesome long pole, — besides lecturing 
him through the diurnal vacations so tediously, that the poor urchin 
was fain, — for the sake of a little play, — to get into school again. 

I hate all forcing-frames for the young intellect, — and the Locke 
sy=^tem, which after all is but a Canal system for raising the babe- 
mind to unnatural levels. I pity the poor child that is learned in 
alpha beta, but ignorant of top and taw ; and was never so maliciously 
gratified as when, in spite of all his promptings and leading questions, 
I beheld W * * * reddening, even to the conscious tips of his tingling 
ears, at the boy's untimely inaptitude. Why could he not rest con- 
tented, when the poor imp h;id answered him already, " What was a 
Roman Emperor?" — without requiring an interpretation oi the Logos f 



123 




" As it fell upon a day." 



''AS IT FELL UPON A DAYP 



I WONDER that W , the Ami des Enfans, has never written a 
sonnet, or ballad, on a girl that had broken her pitcher. There 
are in the subject the poignant heart's anguish for sympathy and de- 
scription ; — and the brittleness of j.irs and joys, with the abrupt loss 
of the watery fruits — {^\\t pumpkins ns it were)— of her labours, for a 
moral. In such childish accidents there is a world of woe ; — the fall 
of earthenware is to babes as, to elder contemplations, the Fall of 
Man. 

I have often been tempted myself to indite a didactic ode to that 
urchin in Hogarth with the ruined pie-dish. What a lusty anguish is 
wringing him — so that all for pity he could die; — and then th< re is 
the instantmeous filling on of the beggar-girl to lick up the fragments 
— expressively hinting h>)W universally want and hunger are abounding 
in this miserable world, — and ready gaping at every turn, for such 
windfalls and stray fiodsends. But, h, irk .'—what a shrill, feline cry 
startleth the wide Aldgate ! 



124 A FAIRY TALE. 

Oh ! what's befallen Bessy Brown, 

She stands so squalling in the street? 

She's let her pitcher tumble down, 
And all the water's at her feet ! 

The little schoolboys stood about, 

And iaugh'd to see her pumping, pumping J 

Now with a curtsey to the spout, 
And then upon her tiptoes jumping. 

Long time she waited for her neighbours 
To have their turns : — but she must lose 

The watery wages of her labours, — 
Except a little in her shoes ! 

Without a voice to tell her tale, 
And ugly transport in her face ; 

All like a jugless nightingale, 
She thinks of her bereaved case. 

At last she sobs — she cries — she screams !-• 
And pours her flood of sorrows out, 

From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams. 
Just like the lion on the spout. 

For well poor Bessy knows her mother 
Must lose her tea, for water's lack, 

That Sukey burns — and baby-brothL'r 
Must be dry-rubb'd with huck-a-backl 



A FAIR V TALE, 

On Hounslow Heath, and close beside the road, 
As western travellers m.iy oft have seen, 
A little house some years ago there stood, 

A minikin abode ; 
And built like Mr Birkbeck's, ali of wood : 
The walls of white, the window shutters green,— 
Four wheels it hath at North, South, East, and We.?t 

(Though now at rest), 
On which it used to wander to and fro. 
Because its master ne'er maintain'd a rider. 

Like those who trade in Paternoster Row ; 
But made his business travel for itself. 

Till he had made his pelf. 
And then retired — if one may call it so, 

Of a roadsider. 



A FAIRY TALE. ia$ 

Perchance, the very race and constant riot 
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, 
Made him more relish the repose and quiet 

Of his now sedentary caravan ; 
Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, 
And so he might impale a strip of soil 
That furnish'd, by his toil, 
Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ; — • 
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower, 
Howbeit, the tlioroughfare did no ways spoil 
His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, 
A stray horse came and gobljled up his bower I 

But tired of always looking at the coaches, 

The same to come, — when they had seen them one day f 

And used to brisker life, both man and wife 
Began to suffer N U E's approaches. 
And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday, — 
So, having had some quarters of school breeding. 
They turn'd themselves like other folks, to reading ; 
But setting out where others nigh have done, 
And being ripen'd in the seventh stage. 

The childhood of old age, 
Began, as other children have begun,— 
Not with the pastorals of Mr Pope, 

Or Bard of Hope, 
Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, — 
But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St Mark, or John, 
And then relax d themselves with Whittington, 

Or Valentine and Orson — 
But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, 
And being easily melted in their dotage, 

Slobber'd, — and kept 

Reading, — and wept 
Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. 

Thus reading on— s-the longer 
They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger 
In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, — 
If talking Trees and Birds reveal'd to him. 
She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons. 

And magic fishes swim 
In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons. — 
Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons j 
When as it fell upon a summer's day, 

As the old man sat a feeding 
On the old babe-reading, 
Beside his open street-and-parlour door, 

A hideous roar 
Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the way. 



l»6 A FAIRY TALE. 

Long-horn'd, and short, of many a different breed, 
Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels 

Or Durham feed ; 
With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils 

From nether side of Tweed, 

Oi- Firth of Forth ; 
Looking halt wild witii joy to leave the North, — 
With dusty hide^, all mobbing on together, — 
When, — whether from a fly's milicious comment 
. ^ Upon his tender flank, from wnich he shrank ; 

Or whether 
Only in some enthusiastic moment. — 
However, one brown monster, in a frisk, 
Giving his tail a perpeiidicular whisk. 
Kick'd out a passage throu;^4i the beastly rabble ; 
And after a pas seul,' — or, if you will, a 
Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa, 

Leapt o'er the tiny p ile, — 
Back'd his beef-steaks against the wooden gablct 
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail 

Right o'er the page, 

Wiierem the sage 
Just then was spelling some romantic fable. 



The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce, 

Could not peruse, — who could ? — two tales at once ; 

And being huff'd 
At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, 

Ban'_;'d-to the door, 
But most unluckily enclosed a morsel 
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : — 

The monster gave a roar. 
And bolting off with speed increased bv pain, 
The little house became a coach once more, 
And, like Macheath, '• took to the road " a^ain ! 



Just then, by Fortune's whimsical decree, 
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper 
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, 
Was getting un some household herbs for supper; 
Thoughtful of Cinderella in the tale. 
And quaintly wondering if maL'ic shifts 
Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail. 
To turn it to a coach ; — what pretty >4ifts 
Might come of cabbages and curly kale : 
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail. 
Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd a corner, quite 
Gone out of sight ! 



THE SPOILED CHILD. 

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, 
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing ; 

And looking round 

Where rest was to be found, 
There was no house — no villa there — no nothing 1 
No house ! 

The change was quite amazing ; 
It made her senses stagger for a minute. 
The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; 
But soon her superannuated nous 
Explain'd the horrid mystery ; — and raising 
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it, 

On which she meant to sup, — 
"Well ! this is Fairy Work ! I'll bet a farden, 
Little Prince Silverwings has ketchd me up, 
And set me down in some one else's garden ! * 



127 




The Spoiled Child. 



THE SPOILED CHILD. 



MY Aunt Shakerly was of an enormous bulk. I have not done 
justice to her hugeness in my sketch, for my timid pencil 
declined to hazard a sweep at her real dimensions. — There is a vast- 
ness in the outline, of even moderate proportions, till the mass is 



ia8 THE SPOILED CHILD, 

rounded off by shadows, that makes the hand hesitate, and apt to 
stint the figure of its proper breadth : how, then, should I have ven- 
tured to trace, like mapping in a Continent, the surpassing boundaries 
of my Aunt Shakerly ! 

What a visage was hers ! — the cheeks, a pair of hemispheres : — her 
neck literally swallowed up by a supplementary chin. Her arm, 
cased in a tight sleeve, was as the bolster, — her body like the feather 
bed of Ware. The waist, which, in other trunks, is an isthmus, was 
in hers only the middle zone of a continuous tract of flesh : — her ankles 
overlai)ped her shoes. 

With such a figure, it may be supposed that her habits were seden- 
tary. — When she did walk, the Tower Quay, for the sake of the fresh 
river-breeze, was her favourite resort. But never, in all her waterside 
promenades, was she hailed by the uplifted finger of the Waterman. 
With looks purposely averted he declined, tacitly, such a Fairlopian 
Fair. — The Hackney-coach driver, whilst she halted over against him, 
mustering up all her scanty puffings for an exclamation, drove off to 
the nether pavement, and pleaded a prior call. The chairman, in 
answer to her signals — had just broken his poles. — Thus, her goings 
were cramped within a narrow circle : many thoroughfares, besides, 
being stran;_;e to her and inaccessible, such as Thames Street, through 
the narrow pavements ; — others, like the Hill of Holborn, — from their 
impracticable steepness. How she was finally to master a more serious 
ascension (the sensible incumbrance of the flesh clinging to her even 
in her spiritual aspirations), was a matter of her serious despondency 
— a picture of Jacob's Ladder, by Sir F. Bourgeois, confirming her, 
that the celestial staircase was without a landing. 

For a person of her elephantine proportions, my Aunt was of a 
kindly nature — for I confess a prejudice against such Giantesses. 
She was cheerful, and eminently charitable to the poor, — although 
she did not condescend to a personal visitation of their ver> limited 
abodes. If she had a fault, it was in her conduct towards children — 
not spoiling them by often repented indulgences, and untimely severi- 
ties, the common practice of bad mothers : — it was by a shorter course 
that the latent and hereditary virtues of the infant Shakerly were 
blasted in the bud. 

Oh, my tender cousin***! (for thou wert yet unbaptized). Oh! 
would thou had'st been, — my little babe-cousin, — of a savager mother 
born ! — For then, having thee comfortably swaddled, upon a backboard, 
with a hole in it, she would have hung thee up, out of harm's way, 
above the mantel-shelf, or behind the kitchen door — whereas, thy 
parent was no sava^ie, and so, having her hands full of other matters, 
she laid thee down, helpless, upon the parlour chnir! — 

In the meantime, the Hej-ald came. — Next to an easy seat, my 
Aunt dearly loved a police newspaper ; — when she had once plunged 
into its columns, the most vital question obtained from her only a 
random answer ; — the world and the roasting-j ick stood equally stilL 
—So, without a second tliought, she dropped herself on the nursmg 
chair. One little smothered cry — my cousin's last breath — found its 
way into the upper air, — but the still small voice of the reportes 
engrossed the maternal ear. 



THE FALL OF THE DEER. 129 

My Aunt never skimmed a newspaper, accordmg to some people's 
pr.ictice. She was as solid a reader as a sitter, and did not get up, 
therefore, till she had gone through the "Herald" from end to end. 
When she did rise, — which was suddenly, — tue earth quaked— the 
windows rattled — the ewers splashed over — the crockery fell from the 
shelf — and the cat and rats ran out together, as they are said to do 
from a fallmg house. 

" Heyday !" said my uncle, above-stairs, as he staggered from the 
concussion — and, with the usual curiosity, he referred to his pocket- 
book for the Royal Birthday. But the almanac not accounting for 
the explosion, he ran down the stairs, at the heels of the housemaid, 
and there lay iny Aunt, stretched on the parlour-floor, in a fit. At the 
very first gliiaipse, he explamed the matter to his own satisfaction, in 
three words — 

" Ah — tiie apoplexy ! " 

Now the housemaid had done her part to secure him against this 
error, by holding up the dead child ; but as she turned the body edge- 
ways, he did not perceive it. When he did see it but I must draw 

a curtain over the parental agony — 

# 4 « • • 

About an hour aft^r the catastrophe, an inquisitive she-neighbour 
called in, and asked if we should not have the Coror er to sit on the 
body : — but my uncle replied, " There was no need."-—" But in cases, 
Mr Shakerly, where the death is not natural." — " M-^ dear Madam, 
interrupted my uncle, " it was a natural death enough." 



THE FALL OF THE DEER, 

[from an old MS.] 

Now the loud Crye is up, and harke ! 
The barkye Trees give back the Bark ; 
The House Wife heares the merrie rout, 
And runnes, — and lets the beere run out. 
Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for whv ? 
She likes \.o neare the Deer Dogges crye, 
And see the " ild Stag how he stretches 
The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, 
Running like one of Human kind 
Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind — 
As if he had not payde his Bill 
For Ven'son, or was owing still 
For his two Homes, and see did get 
Over his Head and Ears in Debt ; — 
Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye 
With his long Legges the while he maye t — 
But he is chased, like Silver Dish, 
As well as an>e Hart [may] wish, 

1 



I30 



THE FALL OF THE DEER. 

Except that one whose Heart doth beat 
So faste it hasteneth his Feet ; — 
And runninge soe, he holdeth Death, 
Four feet from him, — till his Breath 
Faileth, and slacking Pace at last, 
From runninge slow he standeth faste, 
With hornie Bayonettes at baye 
To baying Dogges around, and they 
Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore, 
And goreth them that seek his Gore, — 
Whatever Dogge his Home doth rive 
Is dead— as sure as he's alive ! 
Soe that courageous Hart doth fight 
With Fate, and calleth up his might, 
And standeth stout that he maye fall 
Bravelye, and be avenged of all, 
Nor like a Craven yield his Breath 
Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death ! 





Master Craliivm. 



«3i 
DECEMBER AND MAY. 

* Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together." — Shakespkarb, 

Said Nestor to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, 
** Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away ? 
You ouL;ht to be more fortified." — "Ah, brute, be quiet, do I 
I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you ! 

" Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard ; 
You'd die for me, you swore, and I — I took you at your word. 
I was a tradesman's widow then — a pretty change I've made; 
To live and die the wife of one, a widower by trade ! " 

** Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth, 
You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth ; 
Besides, \ou said you lilced old men, though now at me you huff." 
"Why, yes," she said, "and so I do — but you're not old enough!" 

" Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet hive ; 
I'll be the best of men, — I mean, — I'll be the best alive ! 
Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core." 
** I thank you, sir, for telling me — for now I'll grieve the moxe! * 



A WINTER NOSEGAY, 

Oh, wither'd winter Blossoms, 
Dowager-flowers, — the December vanity, 
In antiquated visages and bosoms. — 

What are ye plann'd for. 

Unless to stand lor 
Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity ? 

There is my Quaker Aunt, 
A Paper-Flower, — with a form.il border 

No breeze could e'er disorder, 
Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry, 

A pucker'd berry ; 
And Box, like a tough-lived annuitant, — 

Verdant alway — 
From quarter-day e\en to quarter-day ; 
And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,— 

Well named, God wot, 
Under the baptism of the water-pot,— 
The very apparition of a plant ! 

And why 
Dost hold thy l\ead so high, 

Old Winter- Daisy? — 
Because thy virtue ne\er was infirm, 

Howe'er thy stalk be crazy? 



132 A WINTER NOSEGA V. 

That never wanton fly, or blighting worm, 
Made holes in thy most perfect indentation ? 

'Tis likely that sour leat, 

To garden thief, 
Forcepp'd or wing'd, was never a temptntion ; — 
Well, — still uphold thy wintry reputation ; 
Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers' trial: 
And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of ours 

Converse with flowers. 
Then thou shalt be the token of denial. 

Away ! dull weeds, 
Born without beneficial use or needs ! 
Fit only to deck out cold winding-sheets ; 
And then not for the milkmaid's funeral- bloom, 

Or fair Fidele's tomb 

To tantalize, — vile cheats ! 
Some prc^ij^al bee, with hope of after-sweets, 

Frigid, and rigid, 

As if ye never knew 

One drop of dew, 
J Or the warm sun resplendent ; 

Indifferent of culture and of care, 
Giving no sweets back to the fostering air, 
Churlishly indeoendent — 

I hate ye, of nil breeds ; 
Yea, all that live so selfishly — to self. 
And not by interchange of kindly deeds — ■ 
Hence ! — from my shelf ! 




'33 



EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP, 

It was a young maiden went forth to ride. 
And th&re was a wooer to pace by her side; 
His horse was so httle, and hers so high, 
He thought his Angel was up in the sky. 

His love was great, though his wit was small ; 
He bade her ride easy — and that was all. 
The very horses began to neigh, — 
Because their betters had nought to say. 

They rode by elm, and they rode by oak, 

They rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke : — 

"My pretty maiden, if you'll agree, 

You shall always amble through life with me.* 

The damsel answer'd him never a word, 

But kick'd the grey mare, and away she spurr'd. 

The wooer still follow'd behind the jade, 

And enjoy'd — like a wooer — the dust she made. 

They rode through moss, and they rode through more,- 

The gallant behind and the lass before : — 

At last they came to a miry place. 

And there the sad wooer gave up the chase. 

Quoth he, " If my nag was better to ride, 

I'd follow her over the world so wide. 

Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail. 

But I've lost the last ghmpse of the grey mare's tail | • 




134 




" She is far from the lai 



''SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND:' 



IT has been my fortune, or misfortune, sometimes to witness the 
distresses of females upon shipboard ; — that is, in such fresh- 
victual passages as to Rnmsgate — or to Leith. How they can con- 
template or execute those longer voyages, beyond Good Hope's Cape, 
^even with the implied inducements of matrimony, — is one of my 
standard wonders. Tuere is a nj.tural shrinking — a cat-like antipathy, 
— to water, in the lady-constitution, — (as the false Argonaut well 
remembered when he shook off Ariadne) — that seems to forbid such 
sea-adventures. Betwixt a younger daughter, in Hampshire for 
example, — and a Judge's son of Calcutta, there is, apparently, a great 
gulf fixed. 

How have I felt, and shuddered, for a timid, shrinking, anxious 
female, full of tremblings as an aspen, — -about to set her tirst foot upon 
the stage ! — but it can be nothing to a maiden's debCt on the deck of 
an East Indiaman. 

Handkerchiefs waving — not in welcome, but in farewell ; crowded 
boxes — not filled with living Beauty and Fashion — but departing 
lug:,fage. Not the mere noisy Gods of the gallery to encounter, — 
but those, more boisterous, of the wind and wave. And then, all 
before her, — the great salt-water Pit ! 

As I write this, the figure of Miss Oliver rises up before me, — just 
as she looked on her first introduction, by tlie ' Neiitune,'to the Ocean. 
It was her tirst voyage, — and she made sure would be her last. Her 
storms commenced at Gravesend, — her sea began much higher up. 
She had quahns at Blackwall. At the Nore, she came to themountain- 
billows of her imagination ; for however the ocean may disappoint the 



"SHE IS FAR FROM THE LANOr IjJ 

expectation, from the land, — on shipbonrd, to the uninitiated, it ha^h 
all its terrors. The sailor's capful of wind was to her a North- wc-.ter. 
Every splash of a wave shocked her, as if each brought its torpedo. 
The loose cordage did not tremble and thrill more to the wind than 
her nerves. At every tack of the vessel — on all-fnurs, for she would 
not trust to her own feet and the outstretched hand of courtesy — she 
scrambled up to the higher side. Her back ached with straining 
against the bulwark, to preserve her own and the ship's perpendicular : 
— her eyes glanced right, left, above, beneath, before, behind — with all 
the alacrity of alarm. She had not organs enough of sight or hearing 
to keep watch against all her imagined perils : her ignorance of nautical 
matters, in the meantmie, causing her to mistake the real sea-dangers 
for subjects of self-congratulation. It delighted her to understand 
that there was barely three fathoms of water between the vessel and 
the ground ; — her notion had been that the whole sea was bottomless. 
When the ship struck upon a sand, and was left there high and dry 
by the tide, her pleasure was, of course, complete. " We could walk 
about," she said, "and pick up shells." I believe, she would have 
been as well contented if our ' Neptune ' had been pedestalled upon a 
rock, — deep water and sea-room were the only subjects of her dread. 
When the vessel, therefore, got afloat again, the old terrors of the 
landswoman returned upon her with the former force. All possible 
marine difficulties and disasters were huddled, like an auction medley 
in one lot, into her apprehension : — 

Cables entangling her, 
Shipspars for mangling her, 
Ropes sure of strangling her, 
Blocks over-dangling her, 
Tiller to batter her, 
Topmast to shatter her, 
Tobacco to spatter her ; 
Boreas blustering, 
Boatswain quite liusterin^. 
Thunder-clouds mustering 
To blast her with sulphur— 
If the deep don't engulf her} 
Sometimes fear's scrutiny 
Pries out a mutiny. 
Sniffs conflagration, 
Or hints at starvation t— 
All the sea-dangers, 
Buccaneers, rangers. 
Pirates and Sallee-raen, 
Algerine galleymen, 
Tornadoes and typhons. 
And horrible syphons, 
And submarine travels 
Through roaring sea-navels }, 
Everything wrong enough, 
Long-boaV not long enough 
Vessel not strong enough ; 



136 



"SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 

Pitch mnrring frippery, 
The deck very slipf.ery, 
And the cabin— built sloping, 
The Captain a-toping. 
And the Mate a blasphemer, 
That names his Redeemer, — < 
With inward uneasiness ; 
The coo!: known by greasiness, 
The victuals beslubber'd, 
Her bed — in a cupboard ; 
Things of strangf christening, 
Snatch'd in her listening, 
Bkie lights and red lights 
And mention of dead-lights, 
And shrouds made a theme of — 
Things horrid to dream of, — 
And buoys in the water 
To fear all exhort her ; 




" Cume o'er tlie sea." 



Her friend no Leander, 
Herself no sea-gandt-r, 
And ne'er a cork jacket 
On board of the packet ; 
The breeze still ;i stiffening, 
The trumpet quite deatVnmg; 
Thoughts of repentance. 
And doomsday and sentence ; 
Eveiything sijiister, 
Not a church minister, — 
Pilot a blunderer, 
Coral reefs under her, 
Ready to sunder her ; 
Trunks lipsy-topsv. 
The ship m a dropsy ; 



FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. I37 

Waves oversurging her. 
Syrens a-dirj^eing her ; 
Sharks all expecting her, 
S"ord-fish dissecting her, 
Crabs with their hand-vices 
Punishing land vices ; 
Sea-dogs and unicorns, 
Things with no puny horns, 
Mermen carnivorous — 
"Good Lord deliver us !" 

The rest of the vogage was occupied, — excepting one bright interval, 
— with the sea-malady and sea-horrors. We were off Flamborough 
Head. A heavy swell, the consequence of some recent storm to the 
eastward, was rolling right before the wind upon the land : — and once 
under the shadow of the bluff promontory, we should lose all the 
advantage of a saving westerly breeze. Even the seamen looked 
anxious : but the passengers (save one) were in despair. They were 
already bones of contention, in their own misgivings, to the myriads 
of cormorants and waterfowl inhabiting that stupendous cliff. Miss 
Oliver alone was sanguine : — she was all nods, and becks, and wreathed 
' smiles ; — her cheeriness increased in proportion with our dreariness. 
Even the dismal pitching of the vessel could not disturb her unseason- 
able levity ; — it was like a lightening before death — but, at length, the 
mystery was explained. She had springs of comfort that we knew not 
of. Not brandy, — forth.it we shared in common ; nor supplic itions, — 
for those we had all applied to ; but her ears, being jealously vigilant 
of whatever passed between the mariners, she had overheard from the 
captain^and it had all the sound to her of a comfortable promise — 
that " if the wind held, we should certainly go on sho}e" 



FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. 

I LOVE to pore upon old china, and to speculate, from the imnges, 
on Cathay. I can fancy that the Chinese manners betray them- 
selves, like the drunkard's, in their cups. 

How quaintly pranked and p itttrned is their vessel ! — exquisitely 
outlandish, yet not barbarian. How daintily transparent ! It should 
be no vulgar earth that produces that superlative ware, nor does it so 
seem in the enamelled landscape. 

There are beautiful birds ; there, rich flowers and gorgeous butter- 
flies, — and a delicate clime, if we may credit the porcelain. There be 
also horrible monsters, dragons, with us obsolete, and reckoned fabu- 
lous ; the main breed, doubtless, having followed Fohi (our Noah) in 
his wanderings thither from the Mount Ararat. But how does that 
impeach the loveliness of Cathay ? There are such creatures even in 
Fairyland. 



138 



FANCIES ON A TEA-CUP. 



I long often to loiter in those romantic Paradises — studded with 
pretty temples — holiday pleasure grounds — the true Tea-Gardens. I 
like those meanderin? waters, and the abounding little islands. 

And here is a Chinese nursemaid, Ho-Fi, chiding a fretful little 
Pekin child. The urchin hath just such another toy. at the end of a 
sirinj, as might be purchased at our own Mr Dunnett's. It argues an 




Pere la Chaise. 



advanced state of civilisation where the children have many play- 
thin<js ; and the Chinese infants, witness their flying-fishes and whirli- 
gigs, sold by the stray natives about our streets, are far gone in such 
juvenile luxuries. 

But here is a better token. — The Chinese are a polite people ; for 
they do not make household, much less husbandry, drudges of their 
wives. You may read the women's fortune in their teacups. In nine 
cases out of ten. the female is busy only in the ladylike toils of the 
toilette. Lo ! here, how sedulously the blooming Hy-son is pencilling 
the mortal arches, and curving the cross-bows of her eyebrows. A 
musical instrument, her secondary engagement, is at her almost invi- 
sible feet. Are such little extremities likely to be t.isked with laborious 
offices ? Marry, in kicking they must be ludicrously impotent ; but 
then she hath a formidable growth of nails. 

r>y her side, the obsequious Hum is pouring his soft flatteries into 
her ear. When she walketh abroad (here it is on another sample), he 
shadeth her at two miles oft' with his umbrella. It is like an allegory 
of love triumphing over space. The lady is walking upon one of 
those frequent petty islets, on a plain, as if of porcelain, without any 
herbage, only a solitary flower springs up, seemingly by enchantment, 
at her fairylike foot. The watery space between the lovers is aptly 



THE STAG-EYED LADY. 139 

left as a blai^k, excepting her adorable shadow, which is tending 
towards her slave. 

How reverentially is yon urchin presenting his flowers to the Grey- 
beard ! So honourably is age considered in China ! There would 
be some sense there in birthday celebrations. 

Here, in another compartment, is a solitary scholar, apparently 
studying the elaborate didactics of Con-Fuse- Ye. 

The Chinese have, verily, the advantage of us upon earthenware 1 
They trace themselves as lovers, contempl;ttists, philosophers ;— 
whereas, to judge from our jugs and mugs, we are nothing but sheep- 
bh piping shepherds and fox-hunters. 



THE STAG-EYED LADY, 

K MOORISH TALE.* 
Scheherazade immediately began the following storj ^— 

Ali Ben Ali (did you never read 

His wondrous acts that chronicles relate,— 

How there was one in pity might exceed 
The sack of Troy?) — magnificent he sate 

Upon the throne of greatness — great indeed f 
For those that he had under him were great— 

The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails, 

Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses' tails. 

Ali was cruel — a most cruel one ! 

'Tis rumour'd he had strangled his own mother-~ 
Hovvbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 

'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother 
And sister too — but happily that none 

Did live within harm's length of one another, 
Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze 
To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days. 

Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit. 

And makes a bad man absolutely bad, 
Made Ali wicked to a fault : — 'tis fit 

Monarchs should have some check strings ; but he had 
No curb upon his will — no, not a bit— 

Wnerefore he did not reign well — and full glad 
His slaves bad been to hang him — but they falier'd, 
And let him Hve unhang'd— and still unalter'd, 

* London Magazine, 1822, voL v. p. 422. 



I40 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 

Until he got a sage bush of a beard, 

Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trni'l 

Of bristly hair— that, honour'd and unshe.ir'd, 
Grew downwTrd like old women and cow's tviil, 

Being a sign of age — some grey appear'd, 

Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale ; 

But yet not so poetic as when Time 

Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in taat, 

Ben AH took the hint, and much did vex 

His royal bosom that he had no son, 
No living child of the more noble sex, 

To stand in his Morocco shoes — not one 
To make a negro-pollard — or tread necks 

When he was gone — doom'd, when his days were done^ 
To leave the very city of his fame 
Without an All to keep up his name. 

Therefore he chose a lady for his love. 

Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear ; 

So call'd, becnuse her lustrous eyes, above 
All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear ; 

Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, 

And drumm'd with proxy-pra\ ers Mohammed's ear. 

Knowing a boy for certain must come of it, 

Or else he was not praying to his Prpfit, 

Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair 
Will grow like beer ; so did that stag-eyed dame : 

Ben Ali hoping for a son and heir, 

Buoy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name 

Of mighty hero that his child should bear ; 
He made so certain ere his chicken came : 

But oh ! all worldly wit is little worth, 

Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth I 

To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun 
A little daugluer to this world of sins, — 

//m-fortunes never come alone — so one 
Brought on another, like a pair of t\vins ! 

T\\ ins ! fom; le twins ! — it was enough to stun 
Their little wits and scare thtm from their skins 

To hear their father stamp, and curse and swear, 

Pulhng his beard because he had no heir. 

Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down 
This his paternal raL;e, and thus addrest : 

**0 ! Most Serene ! why dost thou stamp and frown,' 
And box the compass of thy royal chest ? 



THE STAG-EYED LADY. 141 

Ah ! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own 

I love to gaze on ! — Pr'sthee, thou hadst best 
Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin 
Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin ! * 

But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack 
The quicklime of his rnge, that hotter grew ; 

He calld his slaves to bring an ample sack, 
Wherein a woman might he poked — a few 

Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black 
At this sad order ; but their shiveships knew, 

When any dared demur, his sword so bending 

Cut off the " head and front of their offending." 

For Ali had a sword, much like himself, 

A crooked blade, guilty of human gore — 
The trophies it had lopp'd from many nn elf 

Were stuck at his /i^«iaf-quarters by the score— 
Nor yet in peace he laid it on the shelf. 

But jested with it, and his wit cut sore ; 
So that (as they of Public Houses speak) 
He often did his dozen butis a week. 

Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fear. 

Came with the sack the lady to enclose ; 
In vain from her stag-eyes " the big round tears 

Coursed one another down her inimcent nose ;' 
In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears ; 

Though there were some ftlt willing to oppose, 
Yet wlien their heads came in their heads, that minute, 
Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it. 

And when the sack was tied, some two or three 
Of these black undertakers slowly brought her 

To a kind of Moorish .Serpt-ntine ; for she 

Was docm'd to hive a iviiidi>ig-sheet of water. 

Then farewell, earth — farewell to the green tree — 
Farewell, the sun — the moon — each little daughter! 

She's shot from oi'f the shoulders of a black, 

Like a bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back. 

The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fiU'd 

All that the waters oped, as down it fell ; 
Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd 

A ring above her, like a water knell ; 
A moment more, and all its face was still'd, 

And not a guilty heave was left to tell 
That underneath its calm and blue transparence 
A aame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence. 



142 THE STAG- EYED LADY. 

But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore; 

The moon in black eclipse deceased that night. 
Like Desdemona smoiher'd by the Moor ; 

The lady's natal star with pale affright 
Fainted and fell — and what were stars before, 

Turn'd comets as the t.de was brouj^ht to light; 
And all look'd downward on the fatal wave. 
And made their own reflections on her grave. 

Next night, a head — a little lady hend, 

Push'd through the waters a most glassy face^ 

With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, 
Comb'd by live ivory, to show the space 

Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed 
A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace 

Over their sleepy lids — and so she raised 

Her a^«aline nose above the stream, and gazed. 

She oped her lips — lips of a gentle blush, 

So pale, it seem'd near drowned to a white, — 

She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush 
Of music bubbling through the surface light ; 

The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush 
To listen to the air — and through the night 

There come these words of a most plaintive ditty, 

Sobbing as would break all hearts with pity : — 



THE WATER-PERl'S SONG. 

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter, 
The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd m the wave 

The Mussulvi\2s\ coming to fish in this water. 
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
This greyish bath cloak is her funeral pall ; 

And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear 
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! 

Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan, 

My mother's own daughter — the last of her r;.ce — 

She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this oasin 
And sleeps in the water that washes her face 



H2 




" My banks they are furnished." 



WALTON REDIVIVUS. 

A NEW-RIVER ECLOGUE. 

" My old New River has presented no extraordinary novelties lately. But 
there Hope sits, day after day, speculating on traditionary gudgeons. I 
think she hath taken the Fisheries. I now know the reasons why our 
forefathers were denominated East and West Angles. Yet is there no 
lack of spawn, for I wash my hands in fishets that come through the 
pump, every morning, thick as motelings — little things that perish 
untimely, and never taste the brook." 

— Fj'om a Letter of C. Lamb. 



[Piscator is fishing, near the Sir Hugh Middieton's Head, without either basket 
or can. Viator cometh up to him, with an angling rod and a bottle.] 

Via. r^ OOD morrow, Master Piscator. Is there any sport afloat ? 
VJ Pis. I have not been here time enough to answer for it. 
It is barely two hours agone since I put in. 

Via. The fishes are shyer in this stream than in any water that I 
know. 

Pis. I have fished here a whole Whitsuntide through without a 
nibble. But then the weather was not so excellent as to-day. This 
nice shower will set the gudgeons all agape. 

Via. I am impatient to begin. 



144 



WALTON REDIVIVUS. 



Pis. Do you fish with gut ? 

Via. No — I bait with gentles. 

Pis. It is a good tnking b.iit : though my question referred to the 
nature of your line. Let me see your tackle. Why this is no line, 
but a ship's cable. It is six-twist. There is nothing in this water but 
you may pull out with a single hair. 

Via. What ! are there no dace, nor perch ? 

Pis. I doubt not but there have been such fish here in former ages. 
But now-a-days there is nothing of that size. They are gone extinct, 
like the mammoths. 

Via. There was always such a fishing at 'em. W^here there was one 
Aniiler in former times, there is now a hundred. 

Pis. A murrain on 'em ! — A New-River fish now-a-days cannot take 
his common swimming exercise without hitching on a hook. 

Via.- It is the natural course of things for man's populousness to 
terminate other breeds. As the proverb says, " The more Scotchmen 
the fewer herrings." It is curious to consider the family of whales 
growing thinner according to the propagation of parish lamps. 

Pis. Av, and, withal, how the race of man, who is a terrestrial 
animal, should have been in the greatest jeopardy of extinction by the 
el ment of water ; whereas the whales, livmg in the ocean, are most 
liable to be burnt out. 

Via. It is a pleasant speculation. But how is this ? — I thought to 
have brought my gentles comfortably in an old snuff-box, and they are 
all stark dead ! 

Pis. The odour hath killed them. There is nothing more mortal 
than tobacco to all kinds of vermin. Wherefore, a new box will be 
indispensable, thouE;h, for my own practice, I prefer my waistcoat 
po( kets for their carria::e. Pray mark this : — and in the meantime I 
»vill lend you some worms. 

Via. I am much beiiolden : and when you come to Long Acre, I 
will faithfully reoay you. But, look you, my tackle is still amiss. My 
Hoat will not swim. 

Pis. It is no miracle — for here is at least a good ounce of swan-shots 
apon your line. It is over-charged with lead. 

Via. I confess, I am only used to killing sparrows, and such small 
fowls, out of the back-casement. But my i^jnorance sh.dl make me 
the more thankful for your help and instruction. 

Pis. There! the fault is amndcd. And now, observe, — you must 
watch your cork very narrowly, without even an eye wink another 
way ; — for, otherwise, you may overlook the only nibble throughout 
the day. 

Via. I have a bite already ! — my float is going up and down like a 
ship at sea. 

Pis. No. It is only that house-maid dipping in her bucket, which 
causes the agitation you perceive. Tis a shame so to interrupt the 
honest Angler's diversion. It would be but a judgment of God, now, 
if the jade should fall in ! 

Via. But 1 would have her only drowned for some brief twenty 
minuti's or so — and then restored a.i^ain by the surgeons. And yet I 
have doubts of the lawfulness of that dragging of souls back again, 



WALTON REDIVIVUS. 



14^ 



that have taken tlieir fonnnl lenves. In my conscience, it seems like 
flyin:^r against the laws of predestinaliim. 

I'is. It is a doubtful point ;— for, on the other hand, I have heard 
of some that were revived into life by ihe doctors, and came afterwards 
to be hanged. 

Via. Marry ! 'tis pity such knaves' lungs were ever puffd up again ! 
It was good tobacco-smoke ill-wasted ! Oh, how pleasant, now, is 
this angling, which furnishes us with matter for such agreeable dis- 
course i Surely, it is well called a contemplative recreation, for I never 
had half so many thougb.ts in my he id before! 

Pis. 1 am glad you relish it so well. 




Piscator. 



Via. I will take a summer lodging hereabouts, to be near the stream. 
How pleasant is this suliiude ! There are but fourteen a-fishing here : 
— and of those but few men. 

Pis. And we shall be still more lonely on the other side of the City 
R'^ad. — Come, let's across. Nay, we'll put in our lines lower down. 
There was a butcher's wife dragged for, at this bridge, in the lai^t 
week. 

Via. Have you, indeed, any qualms of that kind ? 

Pis. No — but, here.'cbouts, 'tis likely the gudgeons will be gorged. 
Now, we are far enough. Yonder is the row of Colebroke. What a 
balmy wholesome gust is blowing over to us from the cow-lair ! 



U5 XVALTON REDIVIVUS. 

Via. For my part, I smell nothing but dead kittens — for here Kes a 

whole brnod in soak. Would you believe it, — to my phantasy, the 
nine days' blindness of these creatures smacks somewhat of a type of 
tiie human pre-exisience. Methinks I have had m\ self such a myste- 
rious bt ing before I beheld the light. My dreams hint at it. A sort 
ot world before eye^i:jht. 

Pis. I have some dim sympathy with your menninsr. At the Crea.- 
tion, there was such a kind of blind-man's-buff work. The atoms 
jostled together, before there was a revealing sun. But are we not 
fishing too deep ? 

Via. I am afeard on't ! Would we had a plummet ! We shall catch 
weeds. 

Pis. It would be well to fish thus at the bottom, if we were fishing 
for flounders in the sea. But there, you must have forty fahom, or 
so, of stout line ; and then, with your fi-h at the end, it will be the 
boy's old pastime carried into another element. 1 assure you, 'tis like 
swimming a kite ! 

Via. It should be pretty sport — but hush ! My cork has just made 
a bob. It is diving under the water ! — Holla ! — I have catch'd a fish I 
Pis. Is it a great one ? 

Via. Purely, a hu.<;e one! Shall I put it into the bottle? 
Pis. It will be well, — and let there be a good measure of water, too, 
lest he sci^rch against the glass. 

Via, How slippery and shining it is ! — Ah, he is gone ! 
Pis. You are not used to the handlin;.; of a New-River fish ; — and, 
indeed, very few be. But hath he altogether escaped ? 

Via. No ; I have his chin here, which I was obliged to tear off, to 
get away my hook. 

Pis. Well, let him go ; — it vvould be l.i hour wasted to seek for him 
amongst this rank herbage. 'Tis the commonest of Anglers' crosses. 

Via. I am comforted to consider he did not fall into the water agam. 
as he was without a mouth, and might have pined for years. Do you 
think there is any cruelty in our art ."" 

Pis. As for other methods of taking fish, I cannot say ; but I think 
none in the hooking of them. — For, to look at the gills of a fish, with 
those manifold red leaves, like a housewife's needle-book, they are 
admirablv adapted to our purpose ; and manifestly mtencied by Nature 
to slick our steel in. 

Via. I am glad to have the question so comfortably resolved, — for, 
in truth, I have had some misgivin;4S. Now, look how dark the water 
grows ! There is another shower towards. 

Pis. Let it come down, and welcome. 1 have only my working-day 
clothes on. Sunday coats spoil holidays. Let everything hang loose, 
and time too will sit easy. 

Via. I like your philosophy. In this world, we are tlie fools of 
restraint. We starch our ruffs till thev cut us under the ear. 

Pis. How pleasant it would be to discuss these sentiments over a 
tankard of ale ! I have a simple bashfulness against going into a 
public tavern, but I think we could dodge into the Castle, without 
being much seen. 

Via. And 1 have a sort of shuddering about me, that is willing to 



'*LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 



147 



go more fninlcly in. Let us put up, then. By my halidom ! here is 
a little dead fish hanging at my hook : — and yet I never felt him biie. 

Pis. 'Tis only a little week-old gudgeon, and he had not strength 
enough to stir the cork. However, we may say boldl) that we have 
caught a fish. 

Via. Nay, I have another here in my bottle. He was sleeping on 
his back at the top of the w,,ter, and I got him out nimbly with the 
hollow of my hand. 

Pis. We have caught a brace then ; — besides the great one that was 
lost amongst the grass. I am glad on't ; for we can bestow them upon 
some poor hungry person in our way home. It is passable good sport 
for the place. 

Via. I am satisfied it must be called so. But the next time I come 
hither, I shall bring a reel with me, and a rendy-made minnow, for I 
am certain there nuist be some marvellous huge pikes here ; they 
always make a scarcity of other fish. However, I have been bravely 
entertained, and, at the first holiday, I will come to it again. 



f . *.. <^^ 




' Love rae, luvc my uog." 



''LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG,'* 

SEEMS, at first sight, an unreasonable demand. May I profess no 
tenderness for Belinda without vowing an attachment to Shock ? 
Must I feel an equal warmth towards my bosom friend and his grey- 
hound.'' Some country gentlemen keep a pack of dogs. Am I ex- 



148 



'LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 



pected to divide my personal regard for my Lord D amongst all his 

celebrati d fox-hounds ? 

I mny be constitutionally averse to the whole canine species : I have 
been bitten, perhaps, in my infancy by a mastiff, or pinned by a bull- 
dog. There are hanowin- tales on record of hydrophobia, of huinan 
barkings, and inhuman smoiherin^s : a dog may be my bu.bcar. 
Again, there are differences in taste. One man mav like to have his 
hand licked all over by a grateful spaniel; but I would not have }/ty 
extremity served so — even by the human tongue. 

But the proverb, so arrogant and absolute in spirit, becomes 
harmless in its common application. The terms are seldom enforced, 
except by persons that a gentleman is not likely to embrace in his 
affection— rat-catchers, butchers, andbull-baiters, tinkers and blind 




" Poor-tray Charinant 



mendicants, beldames and witches. A slaughterman's tulip-eared 
puppy is as liable to engage one's liking as his chuckle-headed master. 
When a courtier makes friends with a drover, he will not be likely to 
object to a sheep-dog as a third party in the alliance. 

" Love me," says Mother Sawyer, "love my dog." 

Who careth to dote on either a witch or her familiar ? The proverb 
thus loses half of its o-ppression : in other cases, it may become a 
pleasant fiction, an agreeable convention. I forget what pretty Coun- 
ters it was who made a confession of her tenderness for a certain sea- 
captain by her abundant caresses of his Esquimaux wolf-dog. The 
shame of the avowal became milder (as the virulence of the small-pox 



"LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 149 

is abated after passing through the constitution of a cow), by its trans- 
mission through the nnimal. 

In hke manner, a formal young Quaker and Quakeress, perfec* 
strancjers to each other, and who might otherwise have sat mum- 
chance together for many hours, fell suddenly to romping, merely 
through the mniden's playfulness with Obadiah's terrier. The do'j 
broke the ice of formality, and, as a third party, took off the painful 
awkwardness of self-introduciion. 

Sir Ulic Mackilli,L;ut, when he wished to break handsomely with 
Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. The dog broke the force 
of" the affront, and the knight's gallantry was spired the rt-pronch of 
a direct confession of disgust towards the spinster; as"the lady took 
the aversion to h'.rself only as the brute's ally. 

My stepmother Hubbard and myself were not on visiting terms for 
many years ; not, we flattered ourselves, throu_;h any hatred or un- 
charitabkness, disgract-fiil between relations, but from a constitutional 
antipathy on the one side, and a doting affection on the other — to a 
dog. My breach of duty and decent respect was softened down into 
my dread of hydrophobia: my second-hand parent even persuaded 
herself that I was jealous of her regard for liijou. It was a comfort- 
able self-delusion on both sides. But the scapegoat died, and then, 
having no rcasona'ole reason to excuse my visits, we came to an open 
rupture. Th^re was no hope of another favourite. My stepmother 
had no general affection for the race, but only for that particular rur. 
It was one of those incongruous attachments, not accountable to reason, 
but seemingly predestmed by fate. The dog was no keepsake — no 
favourite of a dear deceased friend. Ugly as the brute was, she loved 
him for his own sake, — not for any fondness and fidelity, for he was 
the most ungrateful dog, under kindness, that I ever knew, — not for 
his vigilance, for he was never wakeful. He was not useftd, like a 
turnspit; nor accomplished, for he could not dance. He had not 
personal beauty even to make him a welcome object ; and yet, if my 
relation had been requested to display her jewels, she would have 
pointed to the dog, and have answered, in the very spirit of Cornelia, 
— "There is my Bijou." 

Conceive, reader, under this endearing title, a hideous dwarf-mongrel, 
half pug and half terrier, with a face like a frog's ; his goggle-eyes 
squeezing out of his head ; a body like a barrel-churn, on four short 
bandy legs, — as if, in his puupyhood, he had been ill-nursed, — termi- 
nating in a tail like a rabbit's. There is only one sound in nature 
similar to his barking. To hear his voice, you would have looked, 
not for a dog, but for a duck. He was fat and scant of breath. It 
might have been said that he was stuffed alive. But his loving 
mistress, in mournful anticipation of his death, kept a handsome glass- 
case to hold his mummy. She intended, liue Queen Con^tance, to 
"stuff out his \acant garment with his form;" — to have him ever 
before her, "in his habit as he lived ;" — but that hope was never 
realised. 

In those days there were dog-stealers, as well as sl.ive-dealers, — the 
kidnap. ing of the canine, as of the Negro victim, being attributable 
to his skin. 



ISO REMONSTRATORY ODE. 

One eveiiinp; Bijou disappeared. A fruitless search was made for 
him at all his accustomed haunts ; but at daybre,.k the next niornin-, 
stripped naked of his skin, with a mock paper frill, and the stump (.f 
a tobacco-pipe stuck in his nether jaw, he was discovered, set upriijht 
against a post ! 

My stepmother's grief was ungovernable. Tears, which she had 
rot wasted on her dece^^sed step-chiidren, were shed then. In her 
first transport, a reward of ^loo was offered for the a p'ehension ot 
the murderers, but in vain. 

The remains of Bijou, such as they were, she caused to be deposited 
under the lawn. 

I forget what populnr poet was gratified with ten guineas for writing 
his epitaph ; but it was in the measure of the " Pleasures of Hope." 




" Oh, list unto n:y i.ile of woe ! ' 



REMONSTRATORY ODE, 

FROM THE ELEPHANT AT EXETER CHANGE, TO MR MATHEWS, AT THE 
ENGUSH OPERA-HOUSE. 

" See with what courteous action. 
He beckons you to a mjre removed ground." — HatnUt. 

[written by a KRIEND.] 



Oh, ATr Mathews ! Sir ! 
(If a plain elephant may speik his mind, 
And that I have a mind to spe.:h I find 

By my inward stir), 
I long have thought, and wish'd to say, tliat we 
liar cur well-merited prosperity 

\\\ being such near neighbours, 
My keeper now hath lent me pen and ink. 
bhoved in my truss of lunch, and tub of diink, 

And left me to my labours. 



REMOXSTJiATOJ?y ODE. IJI 

The whole menag-erie is in repose, 
The Coatamundi is in liis Sunday clothes, 
Watching the Lynx's most unnatural doze; 
The Panther is asleep and the Macaw ; 
The Lion is en;^a^'ed on something raw; 

The White Bear cools his chin 

'Gainst the wet tin ; 
And the confined old Monkey's in the straw. 
AH the nine little Lionets are lying 
Slumbering in milk, and sighing ; 

Miss Cross is sipping ox-tail soup, 

In her front coop. 
So here's thi- hap',>y mid-day moment ; — yes, 
I seize it, Mr Mathews, to address 

A word or two 
To you 
On the subject of the ruin which must come 
By both bemg in the Strand, and both at home 
On the same nights ; two treats 

So very near each other, 

As, oh my brother ! 
To pLiy old gooseberry with both receipts. 



n. 

Wlien you begin 
Your summer fun, three times a week, at eight, 
And carriages roll up, and cits roll in, 
I feel a change in Exeter 'Change's change, 
And, dash my trunk ! I hate 
To ring my bell, when you ring yours, and go 
With a diminish'd glory through 7ny show 1 

It is most strange ; 
But crowds that meant to see me eat a stack, 
And sip a water-butt or so, and crack 
A root of m inycl-wurzel with my foot, 
E.it little children's fruit. 

Pick from the iloor small coins, 
And then turn slowly round and show my India-rubber 

'Tis str.mge — most strange, but- true, 
That these same crowds seek j'^/^ .' 
Pass my abode, and pay aityoi^r next door ! 
It makes me roar 

With anguish when I think of this ; I go 
With sad severity my nightly rounds 
Before one poor front row. 
My fatal funny foe ! 
And when 1 stoop, as duty bids, I sigh 
And feel that, while poor elephantine I 

Pick up a sixpence, you pick up the pounds \ 



152 



REMONSTRATORY ODE. 



III. 

Could you not go ? 
Could you not take the Cobourg or the Surrey ? 
Or Sadler's Wells, — (I am not in a hurry, 
I never am !) for the next season ? — oh ! 

Woe ! woe ! woe ! 
To both of us, if we remain ; for not 
In silence will I bear my alter'd lot. 
To have you merry, sir, at my expense ; 

No man of any sense. 
No true great person (and we both are great 
In our own ways) would tempt another's fate. 
I would myself depart 
In Mr Cross's cart ; 




' How happy could I be with either 1 



But, like Othello, " am not easily moved." 

There's a nice house in Tottenham Court, they say. 

Fit for a single gentleman's small play ; 

And more conveniently near your home : 

You'll easily go and come. 
Or ijet a room in the City — in some street — 
Coachaiaker's Hall, or the Paul's Head, 

Cateaton Street ; 
Any large place, in short, in which to get your bread ; 

But do not stay, and get 

Me into the Gazette ! 



IV. 

Ah ! The Gazette ; 
I press my forehead with my trunk, and wet 
My tender check with elephantine tears, 

Shed of a walnut size 

From my wise eyes, 



REMONSTRATORY ODE. 153 

To think of ruin after prosperous years. 

What a dread case would be 

For me — large nie ! 
To meet at Basinghall Street, the first and seventh 

* And the eleventh ! 
To undergo (D; n !) 

My last examination ! 
To crin-;e, and to surrender, 
Like a criminal offender, 
All my effects — my bell-pull, and my bell. 
My bult, my stock of hay. my new deal celL 

1^0 post my ivory, sir ! 
And have some curious commissioner 
Very irreverently search my trunk ; 

'Sdeath ! I should die 
With rage, to find a tiger in possession 
Of my abode ; up to his yellow knees 
In my old straw ; and my profound profession 
Entrusted to tw o beasts of assignees ! 



The truth is simply this, — if you will stay 

Under my very nose, 

Filling your rows 
Just at my feeding-time, to see j'^^^r play, 

My mind's made up, 

No more at nine I sup, 
Except on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays ; 




" Takei oh take tho=e lips away 1" 

From eight to eleven, 
As I hope for heaven, 
On Thursdays, and on Sauiidays, nnd Mondays, 
I'll squeak and ronr, and giuni without cessation, 
And utterly confound your recitation. 
And mark me ! nil my friends of the turry snout 
Shall join a chorus shout ; 



Jr:r^ A NEW LIFE-PRESERVER. 

We will be he.ird — we'll spoil 
Your wicked ruination toil. 

Insolvency must ensue 

To you, sir, you ; 
Unless you move your opposition shop, 

And let me stop. 

VI. 

I have no more to say : — I do not write 
li. anger, but in sorrow ; I must look, 
However, to my interests every night, 

And they detest your " Memorandum-book." 
If we could join our forces — I should like it ; 

You do the dialoEjue, and I the songs. 
A voice to me belongs 
(The Editors of- the Globe and Traveller ring 
With praises of it, when I hourly sing 

God s.ive the Kin;^). 
If such a bargain could be schf-med, I'd strike it ! 
I think, too, I could do the Welch old man 
In the Youthful Days, if dress'd upon your plan ; 
And the attorney in your Paris trip, — 

I'm large about the hip ! 
Now think of tliis ! — ^for we crmnot go on 

As next-door rivnls, that my mind declares. 
I must be penniless, or you be gone ! 
We must live separate, or els'_' have shares. 
I am a friend or foe 
As you t.ike this ; 
Let me your profitable hubbub miss, 
Or be it " iVlathews, Elephant, and Co. 1* 



A NE W LIFE-PRESER VER. 

" or liair-breadth '^Ti-p^?-."— Othello. 



I 



HAVE read somewhere of a traveller, who carried with him a brace 
^ of pistols, a carbine, a cutlass, a dagj^er, and an umbrella, but was 
indebted for his preservation to the umbrella : it grappled with a bush 
whvn he was rolling over a precipice. In like m inner, my friend 

W , though armed with a sword, rifle, and hunting-knife, owed his 

existence — to his wig ! 

He was specimen-hunting (for W is a first-rate naturalist) 

somewhere in the backwoods of America, when, happening to light 
upon a dense covert, there sprang out upon him, — not a panther or 
catamountain,— but, vvith terrible whoop and yell, a wild Indian,— one 

of a tribe then hostile to (^ur settlers. W 's gun was mastered in 

a twinkling, himself stretched on the earth, the barbarous knife, des- 
tined to make him balder than Gianby's celebrated Marquis, leaped 
eagerly from its sheath. 



A NEW LIFE-PRESERVER. 155 

Conceive the horrible weapon making its preliminary flourishes and 
circLim^;yrations : the savage features, made savagt.r by p .int .uid 
ruddle, working themselves up to a demoniacal crisis of triumphnnt 
malignity ; his red right hand clutching the shearing-knife ; \\\i left, 
the frizzled top-knot j and then, the artificial scalp coming off in the 
Mohawk grasp ! 

W says, the Indian catchpole was, for some moments, motion- 
less with surprise ; recovering, at last, he dragged his captive along, 
through brake and jungle, to the encampment. A peculiar whoop soon 
brought the whole horde to the spot. The Indian addressed them with 

vehement gestures, in the course of which W was again thrown 

doun, the knife again performed its circuits, and the whole transaction 
wis prmtomimically described. All Indian sedateness and restraint 
were overcome. The assembly made every denonsiration of wond^ r ; 
and the wig was fitted on, rightly, and askew, and hind part before, by 
a hundred pair of red hands. Captain Gulliver's glove was not a 
greater puzzle to the Houhyhnms. From tlie men it passed to the 

squaws ; and from them, down to the least of the urchins ; W 's 

head, in the meantime, frying in a midsumm-.r sun. At length, the 
phenomenon returned into the hands of the chief— a venerable grey- 
beard : he examined it afresh, very attentively, and, after a long deli- 
beration, maintained with true Indian silence and gravity, made a 
speech in his own tongue, that procured for the an.\ious trcmrijling 
captive very unexpected honours. In fact, the whole tribe of women 
and warriors danced round him, with such unequivocal m nks of hom- 
age, that even W compreh. nded th«it he was not intended for 

sacrifice. He was then carried in triumph to their wigwams, his body 
daubed with their body colours of the most honourable patterns ; and 
he was given to understand, that he might choose any of their marri live- 
able maidens for a squaw. Availing himself of this privilege, and so 
becoming, by degrees, more a proficient in their language, he learned 
the Cuuse of this extraordinary respect. — It was con^^idered, that h • had 
been a great warrior ; that he had, by mischance of w .r, been overcnme 
and tufted : but th t, whether by valour or stratagem, each equally 
estimable amongst the s.ivages, he had recovered his liberty ana his 
scalp. 

As long as \V kept his own counsel, he was safe ; but trusting 

his Indian Delilah with the secret of his locks, it soon got wind amoni^st 
the squaws, and from them became known to the warriors aad chiefs. 
A solemn sitting was held at midnight, by the ehifs, to consider the 
propriety of knocking the poor vug-owner on the head ; but he had 
received a timely hint of their intention, and, when the tomahawks 
Bought for him, he was far on iiis way, with his Life-preserver, towards 
a British settlement. 



156 




A Dienm. 



A DREAM. 



IN the figure above — (a medley of human faces, wherein certain 
features belong in common to different vis;iges, the eyebrow of 
one, for instance, forming the mouth of another) — 1 have tried to typify 
a common chnracteristic of drtams. namely, the entanglement of divers 
ideas, to the waking mind distinct or incongruous, but, l)y the confusion 
of sleep, inseparably rivclli'd up, nnd knotted into Gordian intricacies. 
For, as the equivocal feature, m the emblem, belonL;s mdifferentiv to 
either countenance, but is appropriated by the hend that happens to 
be presently the object of cr)ntemplation ; so, in a dream, two separate 
notions will mutually involve some convertible incident, that becnmes, 
by turns, a symptom of both in general, or of either in particular. Thus 
are be:4otten the most extravagant associations of thou:_;ht^ and images, 
— unnatural connexions, like those marriages of forbidden relation- 
ships, where mothers become cousins to tiieir own sons or daughters, 
and quite as bewildering as such genealogical embarrassments. 

1 had a dismal dream once, of this nature, that will serve well for an 
illustration, and which originated in the failure of my first, and last, 
attempt as a dramatic writer. Many of my readers, if I were to name 
the piece in question, would remember its si-^nal condemnation. As 
soon as the Tragedy of my Tragedy was completed, I got into a coach 
and rode home. My nerves were quivering with shame and mortifi- 
caiion. I tried to compose myself over " Paradise Lost," but it failed 
to southe me. I flung mvself into bed, and at length slept ; but the 
disaster of the nij^ht stiil haunted my dreams ; I was again in the 
accursed theatre, but with a difference. It was a compound of the 



A DREAM. 157 

Drury Lane building- and Pandemonium. There were the old shininsj 
green pillars on eitlier side of the stage, but, above, a sublimer dome 
than ever overhung mortnl playhouse. The wonted familiars were in 
keeping of the fore-spoken seats, but the first companies they admiited 
vi'cre new and strange to the place. The first and second tiers, 

" With dreadful faces throng' d, and fiery arms," 

showed like those purgatorial circles sung of by the ancient Florentine^ 
-Satan was in the stage-box. The pit, dismally associated with its bot- 
tomless namesake, was peopled with fiends. Mehu scowled from the 
critics' seat. I^elial, flushed with wine, led on with shout and catcall 
the uproar of the one-^hilling infernals. My hair stood upright with 
dread and horror; I had an appalling sense that more than my drama- 
tic welfare was at stake : — tiiat it was to be not a purely literary ordeal. 
An alarming figure, sometimes a newspaper reporter, sometimes a 
devil, so prevaricating are the communications of sleep, was sitting, 
with his note-book, at my side. My play began. As it proceeded, 
sounds indescribable arose from the infernal auditory, increasing till 
the end ot the first act. The familiar cry, of " Choose any oranges ! " 
was then intermmgled with the murmurings of demons The tumult 




" Oh, breathe not liis name ?" 

grew With the progress of the play. The last act passed in dumb show, 
the horned monsters bellowing, throughout, like the wild bulls of 
Bashan. Prongs and flesh-hooks showered upon the stage. Mrs 
Siddons — the human nature thus jumbling with the diabolical — was 
struck by a brimstone bail. Her lofty brother, robed in imperial purple, 
came forward towards the orchestra, to remonstrate, and was received 
like the Arch-devil in the Poem : 

" He hears 
On all sides, from inniimernble tongues, 
A dismal universal hiss, the sound 
Of public scorn." 



ts8 A DREAM. 

He bowed to the sense of the house, and withdrew. My doom was 
sealed; the recording devil noted down my sentence. A suffocating 
vapour, now smelling of sulphur, and now of gas, issued from tiie 
unquenchable sta;^e-lamps. The flames of the Catalonian C.'Stle, 
burning m the back scene, in compliance with the cntastrophe of the 
piece, blazed up with horrible import. My flesh crept all over me. I 
thought of the everlasting torments, and at the next moment of the 
morrow's paragraphs. I shrank at once from the comments of the 
Morning Post, and the hot marl of Malebolge. The sins of authorship 
had confounded themselves, inextricably, with the mortal sins of tlie 
law. 1 could not disentangle my own from my play's perdition. I was 
damned : but whether spiritually or dramatically the twilight intelli- 
gence of a dream was not clear enough to determine. 

Another simple, wherein the prehuunarics of the dream involved one 
portion, .aid implicitly forbade the other half of the conclusion, was 
more whimsical. It occurred when I was on. the eve of marriage, a 
season when, if lovers sleep sparingly, they dream profusely. A very 
brief slumber sufficed to carry me in the night-coach to Bognor. It 
had been concerted, between Honoria and mvself, that \\e should pass 
the honeymoon at some such place upon the coast. The purpose of 
my solitary journey was to procure an appropriate d^^eiling, and which, 
we had ai;recd, should be a little pleas, nt house, with an indispensable 
look-out upon the sea. I chose one, accordingly ; a pretty vill.i, with 
bow-windows, and a prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur 
sounded incessantly from the beach. A decent elderly body, in decayed 
sables, undertook, on her part, to promote the comforts of the occu- 
pants by every suitable attention, and, as she assured me, at a very 
reasonable rate. So far, the nocturnal faculty had served me truly. A 
day-dream could not have pn-ceeded m^re orderly: but alas! just 
here, when the dwelling was selected, the sea-view secured, the nnt 
agreed upon, when everything was plausible, consistent, and rational, 
the incoherent fancy crept in and confounded all, — by marrying me 
to the old woman of the house ! 

A large proportion of my dreams have, like the preceding, an origin, 
more or less remote, in some actual occurrence. But from all my 
observations and experience, the popular notion ia a mistaken one, that 
our dreams take their subject and colour from the business or meditations 
ol the day. It is true tliat sleep frerpiently gives back real images and 
actions, like a mirror ; but the ri tlection returns at a longer intervaL 
It extracts from pages of some standing, like tlie Retrospective Re- 
view. The mind, released from its connexion with extern<d associa-' 
tions, flies off, gladly, to novel speculations. The soul does not carry 
its tasks out of school. The novel, read upon the pillow, is of no more 
influence than the bride-cake laid beneath it. The charms of Di 
Vernon have faded with me into a vision of Dr Faustus ; the bridal 
dance and festivities, into a chase by a mad bullock. 

The sleeper, like the felon at the putting on of the nip,ht-cr,p, is 
about to be turned off from the affairs of this world. The material 
■icaflold sinks under him ; he drops — as it is expressively called — ■ 
asleep ; and the spirit is transported, we know not whither ! 

I should like to know that, by any earnest application of thougli:, 



A BREAM. 



159 



we could impress its subject upon the midnigbt blank. It would be 
wortli a dny'b devotion to Milton, — "from morn till noon, from noon 
till d \vy eve," — to obtiiin but one glorious vision from the " Paradise 
Lost;" to SpeHiscr; tu purchase but one magical reflection — a Fata 
Morgana— of tlie " Faery Queen ! " I have heard it affirmed, indeed, 
by a gentleman, an especial advocate of early rising, that he could 
procure whatever dream he wished ; but I disbelieve it, or he would 
pas^ far moie hours than he does in bed. If it were possible, by any 
pn cess, to bespeak the nij^ht's entertainment, the theatres, for me, 
miiiht dose their unm\'iting doors. Who would care to sit at the 
miserable stage parodies of ''Lear." "Hamlet," and '• Othello ;" to 
say noti'.ing of the "Tempest," or the "Midsummer Night's Phan- 
ta^^y," — that could command the representation of either of these 
noble dramas, with all the sublime personations, the magnificent 
scenery, and awful reality of a dream ? 

For horrible f.uicies merely, nightmares and incubi, there is a 
recipe extant, that is currently attributed to the late Mr Fuseli. I 




'' My nature is subdued to w hal it w orks ii'." 



mean, a supper of raw pork ; but, as I never slept after it, I cannot 
speak as to the effect. 

Ofiium I have never tried, and, therefore, have never experienced 
such magnificent visions as are described by its eloquent historian. I 
have never been buried for ages under pyramids ; and yet, methinks, 
have suffered agonies as intense as his could be from the common- 
pi c inflictions. For example, a night sp;Mit in the counting of inter- 
minable numbers — an inquisitorial penance — everlasting tedium — the 
mind's treadmill ! 

Another writer, in recording his horrible dreams, describes himself 
.0 have been sometimes an animal pursued by hounds ; sometimes a 
bird, torn in pieces by eagles. They are flat contradictions of mv 
Theory of Dreams. Such Ovidian Metamorphoses never yet entered 



l6o A DREAM. 

jnio my experience. I never translate myself. I must Icnow the taste 
of rape and hempseed, and have cleansed my gizzard with small 
gravel, betore even fancy can turn me into a bird. I must have 
another nowi upon my shoulders, ere I can feel a longing for " a bottle 
of chopt hay, or your good dried oats." My own habits and pre- 
judices, all the symptoms of my identitv, cling to me in my dreams. 
It never happened to me to fancy mysi-lt a child or a woman, dwarf or 
giant, stone-ljlind, or deprived of any senses. 

And here, the latter part of the sentence reminds me of an interest- 
ing question on this subject, that has greatly puzzled me, and of 
which I should be glad to obtain a satisfactory solution, viz., How 
does a blind man dream ? — I mean a p rson with the opaque crystal 
from his birth. He is defective in that very ficulty which, of all 
others, is most active in those night-passai;es, thence emphatically 
called Visions. He has had no acquaintance with external images, 
and has, therefore, none of those transparent pictures that, lilce the 
slides of a magic-lantern, pass before the mind's eye, and are pro- 
jected by the inward s[)iritual light upon the utter blank. His imagi- 
nation must be like an imperfect kaleidoscope, totally unfurnished 
with those parti-coloured fragments whereof the comjilete instrument 
makes such interminable combinations. It is difficult to conceive 
such a man's dream. 

Is it a still benighted wandering — a pitch-dark night progress, 
made known to him by the consciousness of the remaining senses ? 
Is he still pulled through the universal blank, by an invisible power 
as it were, at the nether end of the string? — regaled, sometimes, with 
celestial voluntaries and unknown mysterious fragrances, answering to 
our more romantic flights ; at other times, with homely voices and 
more familiar odours ; here, of rank-smelling cheeses ; there, of pun- 
gent liickles or aromatic drugs, hinting his progress through a metro- 
politan street? Does he over again enjoy the grateful roundness of 
those substantial droppings from the invisible passenger, — palpable 
deposits of an abstract benevolence, — or, in his nightmares, suffer 
anew those painful concussions and corporeal buffetings, from that (to 
him) obscure evil principle, the Parish Beadle ? 

This question I am happily enabled to resolve, through the infor- 
mation of the oldest of those blind Tobits that stand in fresco against 
Bunhill Wall — the same who made that notable comparison of scarlet 
to the sound of a trumpet. As I understood him, harmony, with the 
gravel-blind, is prismatic as well as chromatic. To use his own illus- 
tration, a wall-eyed man has a palette in his ear, as well as in his 
mouth. Some stone-blinds, indeed, dull dogs, without any car for 
C'llour, profess to distinguish the different hues and shades by the 
touch, but that, he said, was a slovenly uncertain method, and in the 
chief article of paintings not allowed to be exercised. 

On my expressing some natural surprise at the aptitude of his cele- 
brated comparison, — a miraculous close likening, to my mind, of the 
known to the unknown, — he told me the instance was nothing, for the 
least discriminative among them could distinguish the scarlet colour 
of the mail-guards' liveries, by the sound of their horns : but there 
vere others, so acute their faculty ! that they could tell the very 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 



mr 



features and complexion of their relatives and familiars, by the mere 
tone of tlieir voices. I was much gratified with this ex[)lanntion ; for 
I confe-^s, hithtrto, I was always extremely puzzled by that narrative 
in the Taller, of a young gentleman's behaviour after the operation of 
couching, and especially at the wonderful promptness with which he 
distinguished liis father from his mother, — his mistress from her maid. 
But it appears that the blind are not so blind as they have been es- 
teemed in the vulgar notion. What they cannot get one way they 
obtain in another : they, in fact, realise what the author of Hudibras 
has ridiculed as a fiction, for they set up 

" Communities of sense^ 
To chop and change intelligences. 
As Rosicrucian Virtuosis 
Can see with ears — and hear with noses," 




Spring and Fall. 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 



Alack ! 'tis melancholy theme to think 
How Learning doth in rugged states abide, 
And, like her ba'-hful owl, obscurely blink 
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied ; 
Not, as in Founders Halls and domes of pride, 
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen, 
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide, 
In midst of fogg\' moors and mosses preen, 
In that clay cabbm hight the College of Kilreen ! 



Sfia THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 



II. 

This Co!'iege looketh South and West alsoe, 
Because it hath a cast in windows twain ; 
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow 
Thorough transparent holes in every pane, 
Which Dan, with many paines, makes whtile a;>aia 
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach 
1 To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain 
Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach," 
Outside and in, though broke, yet so he mendeth each. 

III. 

And in the midst a little door there is, 
Whereon a board that doth congratulate 
With painted letters, red as blood I wis, 
Thus written, 

"CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE:* 
And oft, inde d, the inward of that gate, 
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender sque.ik, 
And moans of mfants that bemoan their fate, 
In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, 
Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speafc 

IV. 

For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, 
And some for Doctors of Divinitie, 
Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongue^ 
And soe win academical degree : 
But some are bred for service of the sea, 
Howbeit, their store of learning is but smaU, 
For mickle waste he counteth it would be 
To stock a head with bookish wares at all, 
Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball, 

V. 

Six babes he sways — some little and some big, 
Divided into classes six ; — alsoe. 
He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig, 
That in the College fareth to and fro, 
And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,— 
And eke the learned rudiments they scan, 
And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know, — 
Hereafter to be shown in caravan. 
And raise the wonderment of many a learned maob 

VI. 

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, 
Wliereof, above his head, some two or three 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMAS TEH. Hhf 

Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls, 
But on the branches of no living tree, 
And overlook the learned family ; ' ' 

Wliile, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perchi 
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, 
Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research 
In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge — now a birch. 



VII. 

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, 
Such as would magisterial hams imbed, 
But sitteth lowly on a beeciien log, 
Secure in high authority and dread : 
Large as a dome, for learning, seems his head. 
And, lil<e Apollo's, all beset with rays, 
Because his locks are so unkempt and red. 
And stand abroad in many several ways : — 
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize. 

\n\\. 

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows 
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard liue. 
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows 
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; 
His nose, — it is a coral to the view ; 
Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen, — 
For much he loves his native mount 'in dew;— 
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, 
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottk-green. 

IX 

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkm shoit 
As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales ; 
But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, 
So that the wind his airy breast assails : 
Below, he wears the nether garb of males, 
Of crimson plush, but non-plush'd at the knee ;— 
Thence further down the native red prevails, 
Of his own naked fleecy hosierie : — 
Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pec^ 



Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap 

His function in a magisterial gown. 

That shows more countries in it than a map,— 

Blue tinct, and red, and green, and rubsei brown, 



I«4 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 

Besides some blots, standing for country-town ; 
And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide J 
But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown, 
He turns the garment of the other side, 
Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied 1 

XI. 

And soe he sits amidst the little pack, 
Tjiat look for shady or for sunny noon 
Within his visage, like an almanac, — 
His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon : 
But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon. 
With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, 
Knowing that infant showers will follow soon. 
And with forebodings of near wrath and storms 
They sit, like timid hares, all tremblmg on their forms. 

XII. 

Ah ! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat 
"Corduroy Colloquy,"— or " Ki, Kae, Kod,"— 
Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat 
More sodden, though already made of sod, 
For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,— 
Severe by rule, and not by nature mild. 
He never spoils the child and spares the rod, 
But spoils the rod and never spares the child, 
And soe with holy rule deems he is reconciled. 

XIII. 

But, surely, the just sky will never wink 
At men who take delight in childish throe. 
And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink 
Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe ; 
Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know, 
By useless birches, tliat forlorn recess, 
Which is no holiday, in Pit below. 
Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,— 
A melancholy place that is all bottomlesse ? 

XIV. 

Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use 
Of needful discipline, in due degree. 
Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, 
Whene'er the twig untrain'd grows up a tree 1 
This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, 
Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands. 
And Learning's help be used for infamie 
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands, 
In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands. 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 



165 



XV. 

But ah ! what shrilly cry doth now alarm 
The sooty fowls that dozed upon tfee beam, 
All sudden fluttering from the Vjrandish'd arm, 
And cacklin;,; chorus with the human scream ? 
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam 
In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, 
Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem, 
That falsely lets the fierce besieger in ; 
Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win. 

XVI. 

No parent dear he nath to heed his cries ;— 
Alas ! his parent dear is far aloof, 
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, 
Kill'd by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, 




'All in the downs.'' 



Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, 
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, 
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof, 
Dreaming he sees his home, — his Phelim smile ; 
Ah me ! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while I 



XVII. 



Ah ! who can paint that hard and heavy time, 
When first the scholar lists in Learnin^^'s train. 
And mounts her rugged steep, enforced to climb, 
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain 



t66 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER, 

From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane, 
Wherein, alas ! no sugar'd juices dwell ; 
For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain, 
Another weepeth over chilblains fell, 
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well ! 

XVIII. : \ 

Anon a third, for his delicious root, 
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit- 
So so!>n is human violence afoot, 
So hardly is the harmless biter bit ! 
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit 
And mouthing face, deride's the small one's moan, 
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit ; — 
Ala( k ! mischance comes seldomtimes alone, 
But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one; 

XIX. 

For lo ! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, 
Smites his scald-head, that is already sore, — 
Superfluous wound, — such is Misfortune's rub ! 
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, 
And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, 
That still with backward fist he strives to dry ; 
W^ashing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er. 
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, 
Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. 

XX. 

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, 
And, with his natural untender knack, 
By new distress bids former grievance cease^ 
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback, 
That sets the mournful visa;^e all awrack. 
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine, 
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack ; 
For grief and beet m adverse ways incline — 
This keeps, and that decays, when duly sbak'd in brines 

XXI. 

Now all is hush'd, and with a look profound. 
The Dominie lays ope the learned page ; -'/'^ 

(So be it call'd) althouL'h he doth expound 
Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage J 
Now telleth he of Rome's rude iniant age. 
How Romulus was bred in savage wood, 
By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolrii.h rage ; 
And laid foundation-stone of wall? of mud. 
But water'd it, alas ! with warm fraternal blood* 



THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 



x67 



XXII. 

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war, 
How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town ; 
And stout Achilles at his jaunting-car 
Dragg'd mighty Hector with a bloody crown: 
And eke the bard that sung of their renown, 
In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn. 
He paints, with coUey, wandering up and down, 
Because, at once, in seven cities born, 
And so of parish rights was all his days forlorn. 

XXIII, 

Anon, thrpugh old mythology he goes, 
Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees ; 
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows 
How Plato wise, and clear-eyed Socrates, 




"Oh, there's nothing h:df so sweet in life." 

Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes ; 
But through the clouds of the Olympic cope 
l^eheld St Peter, with his holy keys, 
And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, 
Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope ! 



XXIV. 



From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, 
To new philosophies, that still are green, 



168 TBE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 

And shows what railroads have been track'd to guide 

The wheels of great political machine ; 

If English corn should go abroad, I ween, 
. And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet ; 

How many pigs be born to each spalpeen ; 

And, ah ! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,— 
With twenty souls alive to one square sod of peat I 

XXV. 

Here he makes end ; and all the fry of youth, 

That stood around with serious look intense, 
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth. 
Which they had open'd to his eloquence, 
As if their hearing were a threefold sense. 
But now the current of his words is done, 
And whether any fruits shall spring from thenc^ 
In future time, with any mother's son, 
It is a thing, God wot ! that can be told by none. 

XXVI. 

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon, 
The hour is come to lay aside their lore ; 
The cheerful Pedngogue perceives it soon, 
And cries, " Begone \" unto the imps, — and four 
Snatch their two hats, and struggle for the door, 
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask. 
All blithe and boisterous, — but leave two more, 
With Reading made Uneasy for a task, 
To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine baskt 

XXVII. 

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod, 
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown. 
That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod—*. 
So soothly kind is Erin to her own ! 
And one at Hare and Hound plays all alone,— 
For Phelim's gont to tend his step-dame's cow; 
Ah ! Phelim's step-dnme is a canker'd crone I 
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row, 
And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow t 

XXVIII. 

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, 
Now changeth ferula for rural hoe ; 
But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift 
His college gown, because of solar glow. 



THE SEA.SPELL, 

And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow : 
Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean. 
Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, 
Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottaije green, 
With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. 

XXIX. 

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, 
Link'd each to each by labour, like a bee ; 
Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bowers ;— • 
Would there were many more such wights as he, 
To sway each capital academie 
Of Cam and I sis ; for, alack ! at each 
There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie, 
That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, 
But wears a floury head, and talks in flowery speech I 



1^9 




c:2^ 



Pandeans. 



THE SEA-SPELL. 

^^CsttM, eauld, he lies beneath the deeT^."— Old Scotch BaJJad, 
I. 

It was a jolly mariner. 

The tallest man of three, — 

He loosed his sail against the wind. 

And turn'd his boat to sea : 

The ink-black sky told every eye 

A storm was soon to be ! 



IJO THE SEA-SPELL. 



II. 



But still that jolly marinex 

Took in no reef at all, 

For, in his pouch, confidingly, 

He wore a baby's caul ; 

A thing, as gos-ip nurses know. 

That always brings a squall 1 

III. 

His hat was new, or newly glazed, 

Shone bri;jhtly in the sun ; 

His jacket, like a mariner's, 

True blue as e'er was spun ; 

His ample trousers, like Siint Paul, 

Bore forty stripes save one. 

IV. 

And now the fretting foaming tide 

He steer'd away to cross ; 

The bounding pinnace play'd a game 

Of dreary pitch and toss — 

A game that, on the good dry land, 

Is apt to bring a loss 1 

V. 

Good Heaven befriend that little boatp 

And guide her on her way ! 

A boat, they say, has canvas wings, 

But cannot fly away, 

Though, like a merry singing bird. 

She sits upon the spray ! 

VI. 

Still east by east the little boat 

With tawny sail kept beating : 

Now out of sight between two wavet. 

Now o'er th' horizon fleeting : 

Like greedy swine that feed on mast. 

The waves her mast seem'd eating 1 

VII. 

The sullen sky grew black above, 

The wave as black beneath ; 

Each roaring billow show'd full soon 

A white and foamy wreath, 

Like angry dogs, that snarl at first, 

And then display their teeth. 



THE SEA- SPELL. 



z7i 



VIII. 

The boatman look'd against the wind. 

The mast began to creak, 

The wave, per saltum, came and dried, 

In salt, upon his cheek ! 

The pointed wave against him rear'd, 

As if it own'd a pique ! 

IX. 

Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave, 
That boatman could alarm, 




" De Gustibus non est disputatndum." 

But Still he Stood ^way to sea, 
And trusted in his charm ; 
He thought by purchase he was safe, 
And arm'd against all harm ! 



Now thick and fast and far aslant 
The stormy rain came pouring ; 
He heard upon the snndy bank 
The distant breakers roaring — 
A groaning intermitting sound, 
Like Gog and Magog snoring ! 



I7a THE SEA-SPELL. 

XI. 

The seafowl shriek'd around the mas^ 

Ahead the grampus tumbled, 

And far off, from a copper cloud, 

The hollow thunder rumbled ; 

It would have quail'd another heart* 

But his was never humbled. 

XII. 

For why ? he had that infant's caul ; 
And wherefore should he dread ?— 
Alas ! alas ! he little thought. 
Before the ebb-tide sped, 
That, like that infant, he should die. 
And with a watery head ! 

XIII. 

The rushing brine flow'd in apace j 

His boat had ne'er a deck ; 

Fate seem'd to call him on, and he 

Attended to her beck ; 

And so he went, still trusting on, 

Though reckless — to his wreck 1 

XIV. 

For as he left his helm, to heave 

The ballast bags a-weather, 

Three monstrous seas came roaring on. 

Like lions leagued together. 

The two first waves the little boat 

Swam over like a feather. — 

XV. 

The two first waves were past and gone^ 

And sinking in her wake ; 

The hugest still came leaping on, 

And hissing like a snake. 

^Jow helm a-lee ! for through the midst. 

The monster he must take 1 

XVI. 

Ah me ! it was a dreary mount 1 
Its base as black as night. 
Its top of pale and livid green, 
Its crest of awful white, 
Like Neptune with a leprosy,— 
And so it rear'd upright ! 



THE SEA-SPELL, I7J 



XVII. 

With quaking sails the little boat 
Climb'd up the foaming heap ; 
With quaking sails it paused awhile, 
At balance on the steep ; 
Then rushing down the nether slope, 
Plunged with a dizzy sweep 1 

XVIII. 

Look how a horse, made mad with fear. 

Disdains his careful guide ; 

So now the headlong headstrong boat, 

Unmanaged, turns aside, 

And straight presents her reeling flank 

Against the swelling tide 1 

XIX. 

The gusty wind assaults the sail ; 
Her ballast lies a-lee ! 
The windward sheet is taut and stiff I 
Oh ! the ' Lively ' — where is she ? 
Her capsized keel is in the foam, 
Her pennon's in the sea 1 

XX. 

The wild gull, sailing overhead. 
Three times beheld emerge 
The head of thai bold mariner, 
And then she scream'd his dirge t 
For he had sunk within his grave, 
X«app'd in a shroud of surge 1 

XXI. 

The ensuing wave, with horrid foam, 
Rush'd o'er and cover'd all, — 
The jolly boatman's drowning screanv 
Was smother'd by the squall: 
Heaven never heard his cry, nor did 
The ocean heed his cauU 



174 




' A man's a man for a' that." 



FAZTJiLESS NELL Y GRA Y. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
And used to war's alarms ; 

But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms ! 

Now as they bore him oft" the field, 
Said he, " Let others shoot, 

For here I leave my second leg 
And the Forty-Second Foot ! '^ 

The army-surgeons made him limbs ; 
Said he, " The/re only pegs : 
' But there's as wooden members quite, 
As represent my legs ! " • 

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, 
Her name was Nelly Gray; 

So he went to pay her his devours, 
When he'd devour'd his pay ! 

But when he call'd on Nelly Gray, 
She made him quite a scoff; 

And M hen she saw his wooden legs. 
Began to take them off ! 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 175 

'••O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Grayf 

Is this your love so warm ? 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more uniform !" 

Said she, " I loved a soldier once. 

For he was blithe and brave ; 
But I will never have a man 

With both legs in the grave I 

"Before you had those timber toes. 

Your love I did allow ; 
But then, you know you stand upon 

Another footing now ! " 

« O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! 

For all your jeering speechea, 
At duty's call, I left my legs 

In Badajoz's breaches I " 

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the fee» 

Of legs in war's alarms, 
^nd now you cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feais of arms ! " 

" Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray I 

I know why you refuse : — 
Though I've no feet, some other man 

Is standing in my shoes 1 

* I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 

But, now, a long farewell I 
For you will be my death ;— alas 1 

You will not be my Nell I ^ 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray, 

His heart so heavy got, 
And life was such a burthen grown. 

It made him take a knot ! 

So round his melancholy neck 

A rope he did entwine, 
And, for his second time in life, 

Enlisted in the Line ! 

One end he tied around a beam, 

And then removed his pegs, 
And, as his legs were off, — of course^ 

He soon was off his legs I 



176 FANCY PORTRAITS. 

And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town, — 
For though distress had cut him up, 

It could not cut him down ! 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
To find out why he died — 

And they buried i3en in four cross-roads, 
With a stake in his inside ! 




The Bard of Hope 



FANCY PORTRAITS. 

MANY authors preface their works with a portrait, and it saves 
the reader a deal of speculation. The world loves to know 
something of the features of its favourites ; — it likes the Geniuses to 
appear bodily, as well as the Genii. We may estimate the liveliness 
of this curiosity by the abundance of portraits, masks, busts, china 
and plaster casts, that are extant, of great or would-be great people. 
As soon as a gentleman has proved, in print, ihit he really has a 
head, a score of artists begin to brush at it. The literary lions have 
no peace to their manes. Sir Walter is eternally sitting like Theseus 
to some painter or other; and the late Lord Byron threw out more 
heads before he died than Hydra. The first novel of Mr Gait had 
barely been announced in the second edition, when he was requested 



FANCY PORTRAITS. 



177 



to allow himself to be taken "in one minute ;" — Mr Geoffrey Crayon 
was no sooner known to be Mr Washington Irving, than he was 
waited upon with a sheet of paper and a pair of scissors. 

The whole world, in fact, is one Lavater : — it likes to find its pre- 
judices confirmed by the Hooke nose of the author of " Sayings and 
Doings" — or the lines and angles in the honest face of Izaak Walton. 
It is gratified in dwelling on the repulsive features of a Newgate 
ordinary ; and would be disappointed to miss the seraphic expression 
on the author of the " Angel of the World."' The Old Bailey jurymen 
are physiognomists to a fault ; and if a rope can transform a male- 
factor into an Adonis, a hard gallows face as often brings the malefactor 
to the rope. A low forehead is enough to bring down its head to the 
dusL A well-favoured man meets with good countenance ; but when 




Mr Crabbe. 



people are plain and hard-featured (like the poor, for instance), we 
grind their faces ; an expression, I am couvmced, that refers to phy- 
siognomical theory. 

For my part, I confess a sympathy with the common failing. I 
take likings and dishkings, as some play music, — at sight. The polar 
attractions and repulsions insisted on by the phrenologist, affect me 
not ; but I am not pro!)f against a pleasant or villainous stt of features. 
Sometimes, I own, I am led by the nose (not my own, but that of the 
other party) — in my pn possessions. 

My curiosity docs not object to the disproportionate number of por- 
traits in the annual exhibition. — nor grudge the expense of engrav- 
ing a gentleman's head and shoulders. Like Judith, and the daughter 
of Herodias, 1 have a taste for a head in a plate, and accede cheerfully 
to the charge of the charger. A book without a portrait of the author 
is worse than anonymous. As in a churchyard, you may look on 

^v number of ribs and shin-bones as so many sticks merely, without 
rest ; but if there should chance to be a skull near hand, it claims 

M 



178 FANCY PORTRAITS. 

the relics at once, — so it is with the author's headpiece in front of his 
pages. _ The portrait claims the work. The "Arcadia," for instance, I 
know is none of mine — it be]onj,'s to that young fair gentleman in 
armour with a ruff ! 

So necessary it is for me to have an outward visible sign of the 
inward spiritual poet or philosopher, that in default of an authentic 




Mr Bowles. 

resemblnnce, I cannot help forging for him an effigy in my mind's 
eye, — a Fancy Portrait. A few examples of contemporaries I have 
sketched down, but my collection is far from complete. 

How have I longed to glimpse, in fancy, the Great Unknown ! — 
the Roc of Literature ! — but he keeps his head, like Ben Lomond, 
enveloped in a cloud. How have I sighed for a beau ideal of the 
author of" Christabel " and the "Ancient Mnrinere !"^but I have been 
mocked with a dozen images confusing each other, and indistinct as 




The Author of " Broad Grins." 



water is in water. My only clear revelation was a pair of Hessian 
boots highly polished, or what the ingenious Mr Warren would 
denominate his "Aids to Reflection !" 

I was more certain of the figure, at least, of Dr Kitchener, 
though I had a misgiving about iiis features, which made me have 



FANCY PORTKAirS. 



179 



recourse to a substitute for his head. Moore's profile struck me over 
a bottle after dinner, and the countenance of Mr Bowles occurred to 
me, as in a mirror, — by a tea-table su<4gestion ; Colman's at the sanie 
service; — and Mr Cralibe entered my mind's eye with the supp r. 
But the Bard of Hone — the Laureate of promise and expectation, — 
occurred to me at no meal-time. We all know how Hope feeds her 
own. 

1 had a lively image of the celebrated Denon in a midnight dream, 
.and made out the tull length of the juvenile Graham from a hint of 
Mr Hilton's. 

At a luture season, I hope to complete my gallery of Fancy Por- 
traits. 




Aiiacreoii, juiuor. 



WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 



(SECOND SERIES, 1827.) 




" What Demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that impertinent custom 
of punning 1" — Scribjerus. 



PREFACE. . 

IN the absence of better fiddles, I have ventured to come forward 
a^ain with my little kit of fancies I trust it will not be found 
an unworthy sequel to my first performance ; indeed, I have done my 
best, in the New Series, innocently to imitate a practice that prevails 
abroad in duelling — I mean, that of the seconds giving satisfaction. 

The kind indulgence that welcomed my voCvme heretofore, prevents 
me from reiterating the same apologies. The public have learned by 
this time, from my rude designs, that I ani no great artist, and from 
my text, that I am no great author, but humbly equivocating, batlike, 
between the two kinds ; — though proud 10 partake in any character- 
istic of either. As for the first particular, my hope persuades me that 
my illustrations cannot have degenerated, so ably as I have been 
seconded by Mr Edward Willis, who, like the humane Waiter, has 
befriended my offspring m the Wood. 



PREFACE. 



181 



In the literary part I have to plead guilty, as usual, to some verbal 
inisdemeaiiours ; for which I must leave my defence to Dean Swift, 
and the other great European and Oriental Pundits. Let me suggest, 
however, that a pun is somewhat like a cherry : though there may be 




a slight outward indication of partition — of duplicity of meaning — yet 
no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure. To 
accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I have ret'ramed from 
putting the majority in italics. It is not every one, 1 am aware, that 
can Toler-ate a pun like my Lord Norbury. 




l83 



BIANCAS DREAM, 



A VENETIAN STORY. 
I. 

BlANCA ! — fair Bianca ! — who could dwell 

With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, 
Nor find there lurk'd in it a witchingr spell, 

Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days? 
The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, 

She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blnze ; 
Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it, 
That he could light his link at in a minute. 



n. 

So that, wherever in her charms she shone, 
A thousand breasts were kindled into flame ; 

Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own, 

And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came; 

AH hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own, 
Which none could ever temper down or tame : 

In short, to take our haberda-her's hints, 

She might have written over it, — "from Flint's.*' 



IIL 

She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, 

At least in Venice — where, with eyes of brown, 

Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex 

An amorous gentle with a needless frown ; 

Where gondolas convey guitars by pi cks, 

And Love at casements climbeth up and down, 

Whom, for his tricks and custom in that kind. 

Some have consideiM a Venetian blind. 



IV. 

Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, 
Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor, 

To hapless Julio — all in vain he sought 

With each new moon his hatter and his tailor ; 

In vain the richest padusoy he bought, 

And went in bran new beaver to assail her — 

As if to show that Love had made him smart 

All over — and not merely round his heart. 



BIANCA'S DREAM. 183 

V. 

In vain he labour'd thro' the sylvan park 

Bianca haunted in — that where she came, 
Her learned eyes in wandering might mark 

The twisted cipher of her maiden name, 
Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark : 

No one was touch'd or troubled by his flame, 
Except the dryads, those old maids that grow 
In trees, — like wooden dolls in embryo. 



VI. 

In vain complaining elegies he writ, 
And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, 

And sang in quavers how his heart was split, 
Constant beneath her lattice with each eve ; 

She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit, 
And slash'd his suit so that it match'd his sleeve^ 

Till he grew silent at the vesper star, 

And, quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar. 



VII. 

Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er 

With snows unmelting — an eternal sheet; 

But his was red withm him, like the core 
Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat ; 

And oft he long'd internally to pour 

His flames and glowin;^ lava at her feet ; 

But when his burnings he be;4an to spout, 

She stopp'd his mouth, and put the crater out. 



VIII. 

Meanwhile he wasted in the e\es of men, 
So thin, he seem'd a sort of bk'.leton-key 

Suspended at Death's door — so pak — and then 
He turn'd as nervous as an aspen-liee ; 

The life of man is threescore years and ten, 
But he was perishing at twenty-three ; 

For people truly said, as grief grew stronger, 

** It could not shorten his poor life — much longer.' 



IX. 

For why — he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed. 
Nor relish'd any kind of miith below ; 

Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head, 
Love had become his universal foe, 



I84 BIANCA'S DREAM. 

Salt in his sugar — nightmare in his btd. 

At last, no wonder wretched Julio, 
A sorrow-ridden thni'^, in utter dearth 
Of hope — made up his mind to cut her girth I 



For hapless lovers always died of old, 
Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud ; 

So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis tuld 
The tender-hearted mulberries w: pt blood ; 

And so poor Sappho, when her boy was cold, 
Drown'd her salt tear-drops in a Salter flood,— 

Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past» 

For those old suitors lived beyond their last. 

XI. 

So Julio went to drown, when life was dull, 
But took his corks, and merely had a bath ; 

And once he pull'd a trigger at his skull, 
But merely broke a window in his wrath; 

And once, his hopeless being to annul, 
He tied a packthread to a beam of lath, 

A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 

*Twas meant to be a halter or a tether. 

XII. 

Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust 
His sorrows thro' — 'tis horrible to die ! 

And come down with our little all of dust, 
That dun of all the duns to satisfy : 

To leave life's pleasant city as we must. 

In Death's most dreary spunginsi^-house to lie^ 

Where even all our personals must go 

To pay the debt of Nature that we owe I 

XIII. 

So Julio lived : — 'twas nothing but a pet 

He took at life — a momentary spite ; 
Besides, he hoped that time would some day get 

The better of love's flame, however bright ; 
A thing that time has never compass'd yet. 

For love, we know, is an immortal light ; 
Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt, 
Was always in, — for none have found it out. 

XIV. 

Meanwhile, Bianca dream'd — 'twas once when Night 
Along the darken'd plain began to creep. 



BIANCA'S DREAM. 185 

Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, 

Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep : 
The flowers had shut their eyes — the zephyr light 

Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep ; 
And all the little birds had laid their heads 
Under their wings — sleeping in feather beds. 



XV. 

Lone in her chamber sate the dark-eyed maid. 
By easy stages jaunting thro' her prayers, 

But listening sidelong to a serenade. 

That robb'd the saints a little of their shares: 

For Julio underneath the lattice play'd 
His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, 

Born only underneath Italian skies. 

Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sigha. 

XVT. 

Sweet was the tune — the words were even sweeter- 
Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair. 

With all the common tropes wherewith in metre 
The hackney poets overcharge their fair. 

Her shape was like Diana's, but com;)leter ; 

Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare : 

Cupid, alas ! was cruel Sagittarius, 

Julio — the weeping water-man Aquarius^ 

XVII, 

Now, after listing to such landings rare— 

'Twas very natural indeed to go — 
What if she did postpone one little prayer 

To ask her mirror, " if it was not so ?" 
'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear, 

Reflecting her at once from top to toe : 
And there she gazed upon that glossy track, 
That show'd her front face tho' it " gave her back.* 

XVIII. 

And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall. 
By that dear page where first the woman reads: 

That Julio was no flatterer, none at all, 

She told herself — and then she told her beads; 

Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall 
Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds ; 

For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, 

Just at the half-way milestone of her prayers. 



X86 BIANCA'S DREAM, 

XIX. 

Then like a droopins^ rose so bended she, 
Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed ; 

But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see, 
That fair reflexion, tho' her eyes were closed, 

A beauty bright as it was wont to be, 
A portrait Fuicy painted while she dozed : 

'Tis very natural, some people say, 

To dream of what we dwell on in the day. 



XX. 

Still shone her face — yet not, alas ! the same, 

But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, 
And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came — 
Her eyes resign'd their light, her lips their bloom, 
Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same, 

Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum : 
There was a throbbinij at her heart within, 
For, oh 1 there was a shooting in her chin. 



3CXI. 

And lo ! upon her sad, desponding brow, 

The cruel trenches of besieging age. 
With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show 

Her place was booking for the seventh stage; 
And where her raven tresses used to flow, 

Some locks that Time had left her in his rage. 
And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, 
A compound (hke our Psalms) of t6te and braidy. 



XXII. 

Then for her shape — alas ! how Saturn wrecks. 
And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about, 

Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks, 
Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout, 

Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex ; 
Witness those pensioners call'd In and Out, 

Who all day watching first and second rater, 

Quaintly unbend themselves — but grow no straighten 

XXIII. 

So Time with fair Bianca de ilt, and made 

Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrovr ; 

His iron hand upon her spine he laid, 

And twisted all awry her " winsome marrow." 



BIA NCA ' S DREAM. 

In truth it was a change ! — she had obey'd 

The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, 
But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her 
Something between a Glassite and a Quaker 



187 




In and Out Pensioners. 



XXIV. 



Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme, 
And she had ample reason for her trouble ; 

For what sad maiden, can endure to seem 
Set in for singleness, tho' growing double. 

The fancy madden'd her ; but now the dream, 
-Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, 

Burst, — but still left some fragments of its size, 

That, like the soapsuds, smarted m her eyes. 



XXV. 

And here — ^just here — as she began to heed 

The real world, her clock chimed out its score J 

A clock it was of the Venetian breed, 

That cried the hour from one to twenty-four ; 

The works moreover standing in some need 
Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more ; 

A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears, 

Such strokes referring doubtless to her years. 



|88 BIANCA'S DREAM, 

XXVI. 

At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, 

By twenty she had quite renounced the veil ; 

She thought of Julio just at twenty-one, 
And thirty made her very sad and pale, 

To paint that ruin where her charms would nin ; 
At forty all the maid began to fail, 

And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her, 

Of single blessedness, than single Gloster. 

XXVII. 

And so Bianca changed ;— the next sweet even. 
With Julio in a black Veneti m bark, 

Row'd slow and stealthily — the hour, eleven, 
Just sounding from the tower of old St Mark. 

She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heaven, 
Perchance rejoicing in the c^rateful dark 

That veil'd her blushing cheek, — for Julio brought her. 

Of course — to break the ice upon the water. 

xxviir. 

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind 
To open : — oysters, when the ice is thick, 

Are not so difficult and disinclined ; 
And Julio felt the declaration stick 

About his throat in a most awful kind ; 
However, he contrived by bits to pick 

His trouble forth, — much like a rotten cork 

Groped from a long-neck'd bottle with a lurk. 

XXIX.* 

But love is still the quickest of all readers ; 

And Julio spent besides those signs profuse 
That English teles^raphs and foreign pleaders, 

In help of language, are so apt to use ; 
Arms, shoulders, hngers, all were interceders, 

Nods, shrugs, and bends, — Bianca rould not choose 
But soften to his suit with more facility, 
He told his story with so much agility. 

XXX. 

" Be thoti my park, and I will be thy dear, 
(So he began at last to speak or quote;) 

Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, 
(For passion takes this figurative note ;) 



BIANCA-a DREAM. iSg 

Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier; 

Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote : 
My lily be, and I will be thy river ; 
Be thou my life — and I will be thy liver." 



XXXI. 

This, with more tender logic of the kind, 
He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, 

That timidly against his lips inclined ; 

Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere 

That even now began to steal behind 

A dewy vapour, which was lingering near, 

Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, 

Just like a virgin putting on the veil : 



XXXII. 

Bidding adieu to all her sparks — the stars, 
That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, 

Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars — 
Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. 

Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, 
Bianca did not watch these signs in vain. 

But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, 

With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. 



XXXIII, 

He took the hint full speedily, and, back*d 

By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, 

Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd 
(Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness, 

That made her think all other kisses lack'd 

Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness ' 

Being used but sisterly salutes to feel. 

Insipid things — like sandwiches of veaL 



XXXIV. 

He took lier hand, and soon she felt him wring 
The pretty tingers all instead of one ; 

Anon his stealthy arm began to cling 

About her waist, that had been clasp'd by none ; 

Their dear confessions I forbear to smg. 

Since cold description would but be outrun : 

For bliss and Irish watches liave the pow'r, 

In twenty minutes, to lose half-an-hour 1 



1^0 



A BALLAD SINGER 

IS a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger bath made 
him a wind instrument : his want is vocal, and nui he. His voice 
had gone a-begging before he took it up and applied it to the same 
trade ; it was too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough 
for "Robin Adair." His business is to rnake poijular songs unpouular, — 
he gives the air, like a weathercock, with many variations. As for a 
key, he has but one — a latch-key — for all manner of tunes ; and as they 
are to pass current amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his 
notes like a country banker's, as thick as he can. His tones have a 
copper sound, for he sountis tor copper; and for the musical divisions 
he hath no regard, but sin^s on, like a kettle, without taking any heed 
of the bars. Before beginning, he clears his pipe with gin ; and he is 
always hoarse from the thorough draft in his throat He hath but one 
shake, and that is in winter. His voice sounds". Ilat, from flatulence ; 
and he fetches l^reaih. like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Not- 
withstanding all this, his music gains ground, for it walks with him 
from end to end of the street. 

He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties for a 
song ; for he will chaunt, without asking, to a street cur or a parish 
post. His only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing that \\z 
never dines , for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings 
very commonly in vain. As for his country, he is an Enghshman, that 
by his birthriglit may sing whether he can or not. To conclude, he is 
reckoned passable in the city, but is not so gooa orf the stones. 




191 




" Gin a body meet a, body." 

MAJ^V'S GHOST. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD. 



TWAS in the middle of the night, 
To sleep young William tried, 

When Mary's ghost came stealing io. 
And stood at his bedside. 



• ^ II. 

O William dear ! O William dear 1 
• My rest eternal ceases ; 
Alas ! my everlasting peace 
Is broken into pieces. 



HI. 



I thought the last of all my cares 
Would end with my last minute ; 

But though I went to my long home, 
I didn t stay long in it. 



193 MARY'S GHOST, 

IV. 

The body-snatchers they have come. 
And made a snatch at me ; 

It's very hard them kind of men 
Won't let a body be I 



You thought that I was buried deep, 
Quite decent hke and chary. 

But from her grave in Mary-bone 
They've come and boned, your Mary. 

VI. 

The arm that used to take your arm 

Is took to Dr Vyse ; 
And both my legs are gone to walk 

The hospital at Guy's. 

VII. 

I vow'd that you should have my hand!, 

But fate gives us denial ; 
You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's 

In spirits and a phial. 

VIII. 

As for my feet, the little feet 

You used to call so pretty, 
There's one, 1 know, in Bedford Rov 

The t'other's in the city. 

IX. 

I c^n't tell where my head is gonCj 

But Doctor Carpue can : 
As for my trunk, it's all pack'd Up 

To go by Pickford's vaiu 

X. 

I wish you'd go to Mr P. 

And save me sucli a ride ; 
I don't half like the outside plaO^ 
They've took for my inside. 

XI. 

The cock it crows — I must be gone I 
My William, we must part ! 

But I'll be yours in death, altho* 
Sir Astley has my heart. 



TU£. PROGRESS OF ART. 



I^ 



XII. 



Don't go to weep upon my grave, 
And think that there I be ; 

They haven't left an atom there 
Of my anatomic . 




Infant G«nius. 



THE PROGRESS OF ART. 



O HAPPY time ! Art's early days ! 

When o'er each devd, with sweet self-praise. 

Narcissus-like I hung ! 
When .^reat Rembrandt but little seem'd. 
And such Old Masters all were dcem'd 

As nothmg to the young ! 

II. 

Some scratchy strokes— aljrupt and few, 
So easily and swift I drew, 

Sufficed for my design ; 
My sketchy, superficial hand 
Drew solids at a dash— and spann'd 

A surface with a line. 



.5f 



1,94 THE PROGRESS OF ART. 



III. 

Not long my eye was thus content^ 
But grew more critical — my bent 

Essay'd a hi;;her walk ; 
I copied leaden eyes in lead — 
Rheumatic hands in while and red, 

And gouty feet — in chalk. 

IV. 

Anon my studious art for days 
Kept making faces — happy phrase 

For faces such as mine ! 
Accomplish'd in the details then, 
I left the minor parts of men, 

And drew the form divine. 

V. 

Old Gods and Heroes — Trojan — Gree^ 
Figures — long after the antique, 

Great Ajax justly fear'd ; 
Hectors, of whom at night 1 dreamt, 
And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt 

Bird-nesters to his beard. 

VI. 

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, 
A Pallas, that out- stared her owl, 

A Vulcan — very lame ; 
A Dian stuck about with stars, 
With my right hand 1 murder'd Mara— » 

(One Williams did the same). 

VII. 

But tired of this dry work at last, 
Crayon and chalk aside I cast. 

And gave my brush a drink f 
Dipping — "as when a painter dips 
In gloom of earthquake and eclipse,"— 

That is — in Indian ink. 

VIII. 

Oh, then, what black Mont Blancs aros^ 
Crested with soof, and not with snows : 

What clouds of dingy hue ! 
In spite of what the Bard has penn'd, 
I fear the distance did not " lend 

Enchantment to the view." 



THE PROGRESS OF ART. 



IX. 

Not Radclifife's brush did e'er design 
Black Forests half so black as mine, 

Or lakes so like a pall ; 
The Chinese cake dispersed a ray 
Of dnrkness, like the lij^ht of Day 

And Martin over all. 

X. 

Yet urchin pride sustain'd me still, 
I gazed on all with right good will, 

And spread the dingy tint ; 
** No lioly Luke help'd me to paint ; 
The Devil surely, not a Saint, 

Had any finger in't 1 " 

XI. 

But colours came !— like morning light, 
With gorgeous hues displacing night, 

Or Sprmg-'s enliven'd scene : 
At once the sable shades withdrew : 
My skiss gut very, very blue ; 

My trees extremely green. 

XII. 

And wash'd by my cosmetic brush, 
How iJeauty's cheek began to blush ; 

With locks of auburn stain — 
(Not Goldsmith's Auburn)— nut-brown hair, 
That made her loveliest of the fair ; 

Not " loveliest of the plain !" 

XIII. 

Her liis were of vermilion hue ; 
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue, 

Set nil my heart in flame ! 
A young Pygmalion, I adored 
The maids. I made— but time was stored 

With evil — and it came ! 

XIV. 

Perspective dawn'd— and soon I saw 
My houses stand again -t its law ; 

And " keeping" nil unkept ! 
My beauties wtre no longer things 
For love and fond imaginings, 

But horrors to be wept ! 



195 



196 



A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 



XV, 

Ah ! why did knowledge ope my eyes ? 
Why did I set more artist-wise ? 

It only serves to hint 
What grave defects and wants are mine ; 
That I'm no Hilton in design — 

In nature no Dewint ! 

XVI. 

Thrice happy time ! — Art's early days ! 
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise, 

Narcissiis-like I hung!- 
When great Rembrandt but little secm'd, 
And sucli Old Ma-^ters all were deem'd 

As nothing to the young ! 




" Better late than never.' 



A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS, 



Servant. How well yoii saw 

Vour father to school to-day, kiiowitig how apt 

He is tri play the truant 
Son. I'm is he not 

Yet KOne to school? 
S'ervant. Siand by, and you shall see. 

Enter iluce Old Men with satchels, singing. 
All Three. Doniiiie, l)on:ine, duster, 

'1 hree knaves in a chis'er. 
^on. Oh, this is gall.in; pnsiime. Nay. c-me on ; 

Is tills yuur sctiool ? was tiiat your lesson, ha? 



A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. I9jr 

I*/ Old Man, Pray, now, good son, indeed, indeed 
Son-. Indeed 

Yliu sliall to school. Away with him ! and taTie 

Thrir wag^hips with him, the whole cluster oi them, 
. id Old Man. You shan't send us, now, so you shan't. 
yi Old Man, We be none of your father, so we ben't. 
Son. Av.'ay with 'em, I say ; and tell their schoolmi'^tress 

What truants they are, and bid her pay 'em soundly. 
All Three. Oh ! oh! oh I 
Lady. Alas 1 will nobody beg pardon for 

The poor old boys ? 
Traveller. Do men of such fair years here go to school? 
Native. They wouid die dunces else. 

These were great scholirs in their youth ; but when 

Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes 

And so decays, thai, if they live until 

Threescore, their sens send 'em to school again : 

They'd die as speechless else as new-born children, 
Travellir. 'Tis \ wise nation, and the piety 

Of the yC'Ung men most rare and commendable: 

'Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to beg 

Their liberty this day. 
Smt. 'Tis granted. 

Hold up your heads ; and thank the gentleman. 

Like scholars, wiih your heels now. 
All Thrtt. Gratias 1 Gratias I Gratias 1 [E.reuni stttoy'ng;'] 

" The Antifodes" — By K. Bkomk. 

AMONGST the foundations for the promotion of National Educa- 
. tion, I had heard of Schools for Adults ; but I doubted of their 
existence. They were, I thought, merely the fancies of old dramatists, 
such as that scene just quoted; or the suggestions of philanthropists 
— the theoretical buildings of modern philosophers — benevolent pro- 
spectuses drawn up by warm-hearted enthusiasts, but of schemes 
never to be realised. They were pmbablv only the bubble projections 
of a junto of interested pedagogues, not content with the entrance 
moneys of the rising generation, but aiming to exact a premium from 
the unlettered greybeard. The age, I argued, was not ripe for such 
institutions, in spite of the spread of intelligence, and the vast power 
of knowledge insisted on by the jiublic journalist. I could not con- 
ceive a set of men, or gentlemen, of mature years, if not aged, entering 
themselves as members of preparatory schools and petty seminaries, 
in defiance of shame, humiliation, and the contumely of a literary age. 
It seemed too whimsical to contemplate fathers and venerable grand- 
fathers emulating the infant generation, and seeking for instruction 
in the rudiments. My imagination refused to picture the hoary 
abecedarian — 

" With satchel on his back, and shining morning face, 
Creeping, like snail, im willingly to scliool." 

Fancy grew restive at a patriarchal ignoramus with a fool's-cap, and a 

rod thrust down his bosom ; at a palsied truant dodging the pahny 
inllictions of tlie cane ; or a silver-headed dunce horsed on a pair oi 
rheumatic shoulders for a paralytic flagellation. The picture notwith- 
standing is realised ! Elderly people seem to have considered that 
they will be as awkwardly situated in the other world as here without 
their alphabet,— and Schools for Grown Persons to learn to read are 
no more Utopian than New Harmony. Tiie following letter from a» 



igS A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 

old gentliman, whose education had been neglected,* confirms me in 
the fact. It is copied, verbatim and literatim, from the original, which 
fell into my hands by accident. 

Black Heath, N'ovember 1827. 

Deer Brother, 

My honnerd Parents being Both desist I feal my 
deuty to give you Sum Acount of the Prot;gress I have maid in my 
studdys since last Vocation. You will be 5:ratefied to hear I am at 
the Hed of m\' Class and Tom Hodi^es is at its Bottom, tho He was 
Seventy last Burth Day and I am onely going on for Three Skore. I 
have begun Gografy anddo exsizes on the Globs. In fi^,'gers I am all 
most out the fore Simples and going into Compounds next weak. In 
the mean time hop you will aprove my Hand riting as well as my 
Spelin,,^ wuch I have took grate panes with as you desird. As for the 
French Tung Mr Legt nd<.r says I shall soon get the pronounciation 
as well as a Parishiner but the Master thinks its not advisible to begin 
Lattin at my advancd ears. 

With respecks to my Pearsonal comfits I am verry happy and midling 
Well xcept the old Cumplant in my To — but the Master is so kind 
as to let me have a Cushin for mv feat. If their is any thing to cum- 
plane of its the Vittles. Our Cook dont understand Maid dishes. 
Her Currys is xcrabble. Tom Hodges Foot Man brings him Evry 
Day soop from Birches. I wish you providid me the same. On the 
hole I wish on menny Acounts I was a Day border partickly as 
Barlow sleeps in our Room and coffs all nite long. His brother's 
Ashmy is wus then his. He has took lately to snutf and I have wishes 
to do the lil:e. Its very dull after Supper since Mr Grierson took away 
the fellers Pips, and forbid smocking, and allmost raized a Riot on 
that hed, and some of the Boys was to have Been horst for it. I am 
hippy (to) say I have never been floged as yet and onely Caind once 
and that was for dimming at the Cooks chops becous they was so 
overdun, but there was to have been fore Wiped yeaster day for 
Playing Wist in skool hours, but was Begd off on acount of their 
Lumbargo. 

I am sorry to say Ponder has had another Stroak of the perrylaticks 
and has no Use of his Lims. He is Parrs fag — and Parr has got the 
Roomytix bysides very bad but luckly its onely stiffind one Arm so he 
has still Hops to get the Star for Heliocution. Poor Dick Combs 
eve site has quite gone or he would have a good chance for the Silvur 
Pen. 

Mundy was one of the Fellers Burths Days and we was to have a 
hole Holiday but he dyed sudnly over nite of the appoplxy and dis- 
appinted us verry much. Two moor was fetcht home last Weak so 
that we are getting very thin partickly when we go out Wauking, witch 
is seldom more than three at a time, their is allways so menny in the 
nursry. I forgot to say Garrat run off a month ago he got verry 

• See Elia's Letter to an Old Gentleman whose Education has been Neqlectedf 
London Magazine, January 1825 ; Complete Works of Charles Lamb, p. 404. 



A SCHOOL FOR ADULTS. 199 

Homesick ever since his Granchilderen cum to sea him at skooi, — Mr 
Grierson has expeld him tor running away. 

On Tuesday a new Schollard cum. He is a very old crusty Chaji 
and not much lick'd for that resin by the rest of the Boys, wliom all 
Teas him, and call him Phig because he is a retired Grosser. Mr 
Grierson declind another New Boy because iie hadnt had the Mizzles. 
I have red Gays Fabbles and the other books You were so kind to 
send me — and would be glad of moor partickly the Gentlemans with 
a Welsh Whig and a Worming Pan when you foreward my Closebox 
with my clean Lining like wise sum moor Fleasy Hoshery for my legs 
and the Cardmums I rit for with the French Grammer &c. Also 
weather I am to Dance next quarter. The Gimnystacks is being 
iiiterdeuced into our Skool but is so Voilent no one follows them but 
Old Parr and He cant get up his Pole. 

I have no more to rite but hop this letter will find you as Well as 
me ; Mr Grierson is in Morning for Mr Linly Murry of whose loss 
you have herd of — xcept which he is in Quite good Helth and desires 
his Respective Complements with witch 1 rem me 

Your deutiful and 

lovmg Brother 



S.P. Barlow and Phigg have just had a fite in the Yard about 
calling names and Phigg has pegged Barlows tooth out But it was 
loose beiore. Mr G. dont allow Puglism, if he nose it among the Boys, 
as at their Times of lifes it might be fatle partickly from puling their 
Coats of in the open Are. 

Our new Husher his cum and is verry well Red in his Mother's 
tung, witch is the mane thing with Beginers but We wish the Frentch 
Master was changed on Acount of his Pollyticks and Rehgun. Brass- 
brige and hini is always Squabling about Bonnyparty and the Pop of 
Room. Has for Barlow we cant tell weather He is Wig or Tory for 
he cant express his Senty mints for Coffing. 





The Spare Bed. 



A LEGEND OF NA VARRE. 



'TWAS in the reign of Lev\'is, call'd the Great, 
As one may read on his triumphal arches, 

Tlie ihing betel I'm going to relate, 

In course of one ot those •' poniposo" marches 

He loved to make, like any gorgeous Persian, 

Partly for war, and partly for diversion. 

II. 

Some wag had put it in the royal brain 

To drop a visit at an old ch;iteau, 
Quite unexpected, with his courtly train ; 
""The monarch liked it, — but it happen'd so, 
That Death h.cd got before them by a post, 
And they were " reckoning without their host? 

III. 

Who died exactly as a child should die, 
Without one groan or a convulsive breath. 

Closing witliout one pang his quiet eye, 
Sliding composedly from sleep — to death ; 

A corpse so placid ne'er adorn'd a bed, 

He seem'd not quite — but only rather dead. 



A LEGEND OF NA VARRE, aoi 



vr. 

All night the widow'd Baroness contrived 

To shed a widow's tears ; but on the morrow 

Some news of such unusual sort arrived, 

There came strange alteration in her sorrow ; 

From mouth to mouth it pass'd, one common humming 

Throughout the house — the King ! the Kmg is coming 1 

V. 

The Baroness, with all her soul and heart 

A loyal woman (now call'd ultra-royal), 
Soon thrust all funeral concerns apart, 

And only thought about a banquet-royal ; 
In short, by aid of earnest preparation, 
The visit quite dismiss'd the visitation. 

VI. 

And, spite of all her grief for the ex-mate, 

There was a secret hope she could not smother, 

That some one, early, might replace " the late "— 
It was too soon to think about another ; 

Yet let her minutes of despair be reckun'd 

Against her hope, which was but for a second. 

VII. 

She almost thought that being thus bereft 

Just then was one of Tune's propitious touches; 

_A thread in such a nick so nick'd, it left 
Free opportunity to be a duciiess ; 

Thus all her care was only to look pleasant, 

But as for tears — she dropp'd them — for the present 

VIII. 

Her household, as good servants ought to try, 
Look'd like their lady — anything but sad, 

And giggled even that they might not cry, 
To damp fine company ; in truth they iiad 

No time to mourn, thro' choking turkeys' throttles 

Scouring old laces, and reviewing boities. 

IX. 

Oh, what a hubbub for the house of woe ! 

All, resolute to one irresolution. 
Kept tearing, shearing, plunging to and fro, . 

Just like another French mob-revolution. 
There lay the corpse, that could not stir a muscle, 
But all the rest seem'd Chaos in a bustle. 



a02 A LEGEND OF NA VARRE, 



The Monarch came : oh ! who could ever pjuess 
The Baroness had been so late a weeper ! 

The kingly grace, and more than grai iousness, 
Buried the poor defunct some fathoms deeper,-- « 

Could he have had a glance — alas, poor being 1 

Seeing would certainly have led to D — ing. 

XI. 

For casting round about her eyes to find 
Some one to whom her chattels to endorse. 

The comfortable dame at last inclined 

To choose the cheerful Master of the Horse ; 

He was so gay, — so tender, — the complete 

Nice man, — the sweetest of the monarch's suite, 

XII. 

He saw at once, and enter'd in the lists — 
Glance unto glance made amorous replies J 

They talk'd together like two egotists, 
In conversation all made up oi eyes : 

No couple ever got so right consort-ish 

Within two hours — a courtship rather shortish. 

XIII. 

At last, some sleepy, some by wine opprest. 
The courtly company began '" nid-noddin ; " 

The King tirst sougiit his chamber, and tlie rest 
Instanter foUow'd by the course he trod in. 

I shall not pkase the scandalous b\ showing 

The order, or disorder, of their going. 

XIV. 

The old chateau, before that night, had never 
Held half so many underneath its roof ; 

It task'd the Baroness's best endeavour, 
And put her best contrivance to the proof, 

To give them chambers up and down the stairs, 

In twos and threes, by singles, and by pairs. 

XV. 

She had just lodging for the whole — yet barely ; 

And some, tliat were both broad of back and tall. 
Lay on spare beds that served them very sparely ; 

However, there were beds enough for all ; 
But living bodies occupied so many, 
She could not let the dead one take up any ! 



A LEGEND OF NA VARRE. aoj 



XVI. 

The act was, certainly, not over decent : 

Some small respect e'en alter death she owed him. 

Considering his death had been so recent ; 

However, by commnnd, her servants stow'd him 

(I am ashamed to think how he was slubber'd), 

Stuck bole upright within a corner cupboard 1 

XVII. 

And there he slept as soundly as a post, 
With no more pillow than an oaken shelf: 

Just like a kind accommodalinu host, 
Taking all inconvtniencc on himself; 

None else slept in that room, except a stranger, 

A decent man, a sort of Forest Ranger : 

XVIII. 

Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed, 

Or dreamt himself into an appetite, 
Howbeit, he took a longing to be fed, 

About the hungry middle of the night ; 
So getting forth, he sought some scrap to eat, 
Hopeful of some stray pasty or cold meat. 

XIX. 

The casual glances of the midnight moon, 

Brightening some antique ornaments of brass. 

Guided his gropings to that curner soon. 
Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas ! 

He tried the door — then shook it — and in course 

Of time it open'd to a little force. 

XX. 

He put one hand in, and began to grope ; 

The place was very deep and quite as dark as 
The middle night ; — when lo ! beyond his hope, 

He felt a something cold, in fact, the carcase ; 
Right overjoy d, he laiighd, and blest his luck 
At finding, as he thought, this haunch of buck 1 

XXI. 

Then striding back fnr his coutean-de-chassey 
Determined on a little midni;^ht lunching, 

He came again and probed about the mass, 
As if to find the fattest bit for munching; 

Not meaning wastefully to cut it all up, 

But only to abstract a little collop. 



9C4 A LEGEND OF NA VARREL 



XXII. 

But just as he had struck one greedy stroke, 
His hand fell down quite powerless and weak J 

For when he cut the haunch it plainly spoke 
As haunch of venison never ought to speak ; 

No wonder that his hand could go no further — 

Whose could? — to carve cold meat that beiiow'd, "Murther!* 

XXIII. 

Down came the body with a bounce, and down 
The R:inger sprang, a staircase at a spring, 

And bawl'd enough to waken up a town ; 

Some thought that they wtre murder'd, some, the King, 

And, like Macduff, did nothing for a season, 

But stand upon the spot and bellow, " Treason I * 

XXIV. 

A hundred nightcaps gather'd in a mob, 

Ton hes drew torches, swords brought swords together, 
It seem'd so dark and perilous a joli ; 

The Baroness came, trembling like a feather, 
Just in the rear, as pallid as a corse, 
Leaning against the Master of the Horse. 

XXV 

A dozen of the bravest up the stair, 

Well lighted and well watch'd, bec'an to clamber; 
They sought the door — they found it — they were there— 

A dozen heads went poking m the chamber ; 
And lo ! with one hand planted on his hurt, 
There stood the Body bleeding thro' his shirt, — 

XXVI. 

No passive corse — but, like a duellist 

Just smnrtmg from a scratch, in fierce position, 

One hand advanced, and ready to resist ; 
In fact, the Baron doff'd the apparition, 

Swearing those oaths the French delight in most. 

And for the second time " gave up the ghost ! " 

XXVII. 

A living miracle \ — for why ? — the knife 

That cuts so many off from grave grey hairs 

Had only carved him kindly inio life: 

How soon it changed the posture of affairs I 

The difference one person more or less 

Will make in families, is past all guess. 



A LEGEND OF NA VARKE. 



205 



. XXVIII. 

There stood the Baroness — no widow yet ; 

Here stood the Baron — "in the body" still: 
There stood the Horses' Master in i pet, 

Choking with disappointment's bitter pill, 
To see the hope of his reversion fail. 
Like that of riding on a donkey's tail, 

XXIX. 

. The Baron lived — 'twas nothing but a trance : 

The lady died — 'twas nothing but a death : 
Th(; cupboard-cut served only to enhance 

This postscript to the old Baronial breath : 
He soon forgave, for the reviv.iTs sake, 
A little chop intended for a steak I 




" Speak up, sir.' 



206 




The Flying Dutchman. 



THE DEMON-SHIP. 

STORIES of storm-ships and haunted vessels, of spectre-shallops 
and supernatural Dutch dosjjers, are common to mnny countries, 
and are well attested both in poetry and prose. The adventures of 
Solway sailors, with Mahound, in his bottomless bar>:;es, and the 
careerings of tlie phantom-sliip up and down the Hudson, have 
hundreds of asserters besides Messrs Cunningham and Cravon ; and 
to doubt their authenticity may seem like an imitation of the desperate 
sailing of the haunted vessels themselves against wind and tide. I 
cannot help fancying, however, that Richard Faulder was but one of 
those tavern-dreamers recorded by old Heywood, who conceived 

"The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinuace." 

And ns for the Flying Dutchman, my notion is very different from the 
popular conception of' that apparition, as I have ventured to show by 
the above design. The spectre-ship, bound to Dead-Man's Isle, is 
almost as awful a craft a'^ the skeleton-bark of the Ancient Mariner; 
but they are both fictions, and have not the advmtage of being 
realities, like the dreary vessel with its dreary crew in the following 
story, which records an adventure that befcl even unto m\ self. 



'TWAS offthe Wash — the sun went down — the sea look'd black and grim, 
For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim ; 
Titanic shades ! enormous gloom ! — as if the :H)lid ni^ht 
Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light ! 



THE DEMON-IHIP. 307 

It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, 

With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky I 

Down went my helm — close reef'd — the tack held freely in my hand-— 

With ballast snug — I pllt about, and scudded for the land. 

Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee — my little boat flew fast. 

But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. 

Lord ! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! 

What furious sleet, with level drift, and tierce assaults of hail ! 

What darksome caverns yawn'd before ! what jagged steeps behind ! 

Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. 

Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase, 

But where it sank another rose and gallopd in its place ; 

As black as night — they turn'd to white, and cast against the cloud 

A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud : — 

Still flew my boat : alas ! alas ! her course was nearly run ! 

Behold yon fatal billow rise — ten billows hea(>'d in one ! 

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, 

As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last ! 

Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave ; 

It seem'd as though some cloud had turn'd its hugeness to a wave ! 

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face — 

I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! 

I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine! 

Another pulse — and down it rush'd — an avalanche of brine! 

Brief pause had I on God to cry, or think of wife and home ; 

The waters closed — and when I shriek'd, 1 shriek'd below the foam 1 

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed — 

For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed. 

"Where am I ? — in the breathing world, or in the world of death ?" 
With sharp and sudden p mg I drew another birth of breath ; 
My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound — 
And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around ? 
A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; 
But were those beams the very beams that 1 had seen so oft? 
A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone ; 
But were those eyes the e\es of man that look'd against my own? 

Oh ! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight 
As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night ! 
I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes 
Of fever ; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams- 
Hyaenas — cats — blood-loving bats — and apes with hateful stare — 
Pernicious snakes, and sha-gy bulls — the lion, and she-bear — 
Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite — 
Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the liyht ! 
Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs- 
All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms — 
Hags, goblins, demons, lemun^s, have made me all aghast, — 
But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the mast I 



2o8 SALLY HOLT AND JO/JX HA VLOFT. 

His cheek was black — his brow was bhick — his eyes and hair as darki 

His hand was "black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark ; 
His throat was black, his vcbt the same, and when I look'd beneath, 
His breast was black — all, all was black, except his grinning teeth. 
His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves ! 
O horror ! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves ! 

" Alas ! " I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake, 
Where am I ? in what dreadful ship ? upon what dreadful lake? 
What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? 
It is M abound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul ! 
O mother dear ! my tender nurse 1 dear meadows that beguiled 
My hapDV days, when I was yet a little sinless child, — 
My mother dear — my native fields, 1 never more shall see : 
I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea !" 

Loud laugh'd that Sable Mariner, and loudly in return 

His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern — 

A dozen pair of grimly cheei-:s were crumpled on the nonce — 

As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once : 

A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry lit, 

With shriek and V" 11, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit. 

They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole ; — 

" Our skins," said he, "are black ye see, because we c irry coal ; 

You'll find your mother sure enough, and sec yuur naiive fields — 

For tliis here ship has pick'd you up — the Tvlary Ann of Shields I" 



SALLY HOLT, AND THE DEATH OF 
JOHN HA YLOFT. 

FOUR times in the year — twice at the season of the half-yearly 
dividends, and twice at the intermediate quarters, to make her 
slender investments — there calls at my Aunt Shakerly's a very plain, 
verv demure maiden, about forty, and makes her way downward to 
the kitchen, or upward to my cousin's chamber, as may happen. Her 
coming is not to do chair-work, or needlework — to tell fortunes — t-i 
beg, steal, or borrow. She does not come for old clothes, or for new. 
Her simple errand is love — pure, strong, disinterested, enduring love, 
passing the love of women — at least for women. 

It is not often servitude begets much kindliness between the two 
relations; hers, however, grew from that ungenial soil. — For the whole 
family of the Shakerh s she has a strong feudal attachment, but her 
particular regard dwells with Charlotte, the latest born of the elm. 
Her she dotes upon — her she fondles — and takes upon her longing, 
loving lap. 

Oh, let not the oblivious attentions of the worthy Dominie Sampson 
to the tall boy Lertram be called an unnatural working ! I have 
seen my cousin, a good feeder, and well grown into womanhood, 
sitting — two good heads taller than her dry-nurse — on the knees ol 



SALL Y HOLT AND JOHN HA YLOFT. 209 

the simple-hearted Sally Holt ! I have seen the huge presentation 
orange, unlapped from the homely speckled kerchief, and thrust with 
importunate tenderness into the bashful marn'ageadle hand. 

My cousin s heart is not so artificially compobed as ♦o let her scorn 
this humble affection, though she is |>uzzled sometimes with what kind 
of look to receive tfiese honest but awkward endearments. I have 
seen her face quivering with half a laugh. 

It is one of Sally's staple hopes that, some day or other, when Miss 
Charlotte keeps house, she will live with her as a servant ; and this 
expectation makes her particular and earnest to a fault in her inquiries 
about sweethearts, and offers, and the matrimonial chances, questions 
which I have seen my cousin listen to with half a cry. 

Perhaps Sally looks upon tli.s confidence as her right, in return for 
those secrets which, by joint force of ignorance and affection, she 
could not help reposing in the bosom of her foster-mistress. Nature, 
unkind to her, as to Dogberry, denied to her that knowledge of read- 
ing and writing which comes to some by instinct. A strong principle 
of religion made it a darhng point with her to learn to read, that she 
might study in her Bible ; but in spite of all the help of my cousin, 
and as ardent a desire for learning as ever dwelt in scholar, poor Sally 
never mastered beyond A-B-ab. Her mind, simple as her heart, was 
unequal to any move difficult combinations. Writing was worse to 
her than conjuring. My cousin was her amanuensis ; and from the 
vague, unaccountable mistrust of ignorance, the inditer took the p<riins 
always to compare the verbal message wiih the transcript, by counting 
the number of the words. 

I would give up all the tender epistles of Mrs Arthur Brooke to 
have read one of Sally's epistles ; but they were amatory, and therefore 
kept sacred : for, plain as she was, Sally Holt had a lover. 

There is an unpretending plainness in some faces that has its charm 
^an unaffected ugliness a thousand times more bewitching than those 
would-be pretty looks that neither satisfy the critical sense^ nor leave 
the matter of beauty at once to the imagination. We like better to 
make a new face than to mend an old one. Sally had not one good 
feature, except those which John Hayloft made for her in his dreams ; 
and to judge from one token, her partial fancy was equally answerable 
for his charms. One precious lock — no, not a lock, but rather a rem- 
nant of very short, very coarse, very yellow hair, the clippings of a 
military crop — for John was a corporal — stood the foremost item 
amongst her treasures. To her they were curls, golden, Hyperion, 
and cherished long after the parent-head was laid low, with many 
more, on the blood^ plain of Salamanca. 

I remember vividly at this moment the ecstasy of her grief at the 
receipt of the fatal news. She was standing near the dresser with 
a dish, just cleaned, in her dexter hand. Ninety-nine women in a 
hundred would have dropped the dish. Many would have flung them- 
selves after it on the floor ; but Sally put it up, orderly, on the 
shelf. The fall of John Hayloft could not induce the fall of the 
crockery. She felt the blow notwithstanding, and as soon as she had 
emptied her hands, began to give way to her emotions in her own 
manner. Afflicticsi vents itself in various modes, with different 

o 



BIO SALL Y HOLT AND JOHN HA YLOFT. 

temperaments : some rage, others compose themselves Hke monu* 
ments. Some weep, some sleep, some prose about death, and others 
poetise on it. Many take to a bottle, or to a rope. Some go to 
Margate or Bath. 

Sally did nothing of these kinds. She neither snivelled, travelled, 
sickened, maddened, nor ranted, nor canted, nor hung, nor fuddled, 
herself — she only rocked herself upon the kitchen chair! I 

The action was not adequate to her relief. She got up — took a fresh 
chair — then another — and another — and another. — till she had rocked 
on all the chairs in the kitchen. 

The thing was tickling to both sympathies. It was pathetical to 
behold her grief, but ludicrous that she knew no better how to grieve. 

An American might have thought that she was m the act of enjoy- 
ment, but for an intermitting " O dear ! O dear ! " Passion could not 
wring more from her in the way of exclamation than the toothache. Her 
lamentations were always the same, even in tone. By and by she 
pjlled out the hair — the cropped, yellow, stunted, scrubby hair ; then 
she fell to rocking — then " O dear ! O dear ! " — and then Da Capo. 

It was an odd sort of elegy, and yet, simple as it was, I thought it 
worth a thousand of Lord L\ttelton's ! 

"Heyday, Sally! what is the matter?" was a very natural inquiry 
from my Aunt, when she came down into the kitchen ; and if she did 
not make it with her tongue, at least it was asked very intelligibly by 
her eyes. Now Sally had but one way of addressmg her mistress, and 
she used it here. It was the same with which she would have asked 
for a holiday, except that the waters stood in her eyes.» 

" If you please. Ma'am," said she, rising up from her chair, and 
dropping her old curtsey, " if you please, Ma'am, it's John Hayloft is 
dead ; " and then she began rocking again, as if grief was a baby that 
wanted jogging to sleep. 

My Aunt was posed. She would fain have comforted the mourner, 
but her mode of grieving was so out of the common way, that she did 
not know how to begin. To the violent she might have brought 
soothing ; to the desponding, texts of patience and resignation ; to 
the hysterical, sal volatile ; she might have asked the sentimental for 
the story of her woes. A good scolding is useful with some sluggish 
griefs : — in some cases a cordial. In others — a job. 

If Sally had only screamed, or bellowed, or fainted, or gone stupified, 
or raved, or said a collect, or moped about, it would have been 
easy to deal with her. But with a woman that only rocked on her 
chair 

What the devil could my Aunt do ? 

Why, nothing : — and she did it as well as she could. 



*g;rai-.-AtQr? 




Pony-AtowskL 



A TRUE SIVRY. 

Of all our pains, since man was curst— 
I mean of bi-dy, not the mental — 
To name the worst among the worst, 
The dental sure is transcendental ; 
Some bit of mnsticating bone, 
That ought to help to clear a shelf, 
But lets its proper work alone, 
And only seems to gnaw itself; 
In fact, of any grave attack 
On victual there is little dan^jer, 
'Tis so like coming to the rack, 
As well as going to the manger. 



Old Hunks — it seem'd a fit retort 

Of justii e on his grinding ways — 

Possess'd a grinder of the sort, 

That troubled all his latter days. 

The best of friends fall out, and so 

His teeth had done sonic years ago, 

Save some old stumps with ragged root. 

And they took turn about to shoot ; 

If he drank any chillv liquor, 

They made it quite a point to ihrob ; 

But if he warm'd it on the holj. 

Why then they only twitcli'd the quicker. 



ai9 A TRUE STORY. 

One tooth — I wonder such a tooth 

Had never kill'd him in his youth — 

One tooth he had with many fangs, 

Tliat shot at once as many pangs, 

It had an universal sting ; 

One touch of that ecstatic stump 

Could jerk his limbs and mike him jump^ 

Just like a puppet on a string ; 

And what was worse than all, it had 

A way of making others bad. 

There is, as many know, a knack, 

With certain farming undertakers, 

And this same tooth pursued their track, 

By adding ackers still to ackers I 

One way there is, that has been judged 

A certain cure, but Hunks was loth 

To pay the fee, and quite bei;rud;4ed 

To lose his tooth and money both; 

In fact, a dentist and the wheel 

Of Fortune are a kindred cast, 

For, after all is drawn, you feel 

It's paying for a blank at last ; 

So Hunks we^fi: on from week to week, 

And kept his torment in his cheek ; 

Oh ! how it somethnes set him rocking. 

With that perpetual gnaw — gnaw — gnaw, 

His moans and groans were truly shocking 

And loud, — altho' he held his jaw. 

Many a tug he t;ave his gum 

And tooth, but still it would not come; 

Tho' tied by string to some firm thing, 

He could not draw it, do his best. 

By drawers, altho' he tried a chest. 

At last, but after much debating. 

He join'd a score of mouths in waiting, 

Like his, to have their troubles out. 

Sad sight it was to look about 

At twenty faces making faces, 

With many a rampant trick and antic, 

For all were vory horrid cases, 

And made their owners nearly frantic 

A little wicket now and then 

Took one of these unhappy men, 

And out again the victim rush'd 

While eyes and mouth together gush'd ; 

At last arrived our hero's turn. 

Who plunged his hands in both his pockets, 

And down he sat. prepared to 1- arn 

How teeth are charm'd to qua their sockets. 



A TRUE STORY. tlj 

Those who have felt such operations, 
Alone can guess the sort of ache, 
When his old tooth began to break 
The thread of old associations ; 
It touclvd a string in every part, 
It had so many tender ties ; 
One chord seem'd wrenching at his hearty 
And two were tugging at his eyes ; 
" Bone of his bone," he felt of course ; 
As husbands do in such divorce ; 
At last the fangs gave way a Httle, 
Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, 
And lo ! the cause of all this work, 
Went — where it used to send his victual I 

The monstrous pain of this proceeding 

Had not so numb'd his miser wit, 

But in this slip he saw a hit 

To save, at least, his purse from bleeding; 

So when the dentist sought his fees, 

Quoth Hunks, " Let's finish, if you please* 

" How, finish 1 why, it's out ! "— " Oh ! no— 

*Tis you are out to argue so ; 

I'm none of your beforehand tippers. 

My tooth is in my head, no doubt, 

But as you say >ou pull'd it out, 

Of course it's there — between your nippers* 

"Zounds, sir ! d'ye think I'd sell the truth 

To get a fee? no, wrttch, I scorn it ! " 

But Hunks still ask'd to see the tooth, 

And swore, by gum ! he had not drawn it. 

His end obtain'd, he took his leave, 

A secret chuckle in his sleeve ; 

The joke was worthy to produce one, 

To think, by favour of his wit, 

How well a dentist had been bit 

By one old stump, and that a loose one 1 

The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth 

Is still the frailest thing on earth ; 

Alas ! how often when a joke 

Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough. 

There comes some unexpected stroke, 

And hangs a weeper on the cuff 1 

.Hunks had not whistled half a mile, 
When, planted riglit against a stile, 
There stood his foeman, Mike Mahoney, 
A vagrant reaper, Irish-born, 
That help'd to reap our miser's corn. 
But had not help'd to reap his money, 



tl4' A TRUE STORY. 

A fact that Hunks remember'd quickly; 
His whistle all at once was quell'd, 
And A hen he saw how Michnel held 
His sickle, he felt rather sickly. 

Nine souls in ten, with half his fright, 
Would soon have paid the bill at sight, 
But misers (let observers watch it) 
Will never part with their delight 
Till well demanded by a hatchet — 
They live hard — and they die to match it 
Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking. 
Resolved not yet to pay the debt, 
But let him take it out in hacking ; 
However, Mike began to stickle 
In words before he used the sickle ; 
But mercy was not long attendant : 
From words at last he took to blows, 
And aim'd a cut at Hunks's nose, 
That made it, what some folks are not^ 
A member very independent. 

Heaven knows how far this cruel trick 

Might still have led, but for a tramper 

That came in danger's very nick, 

To put Mahoney to the scamper. 

But still compassion met a damper; 

There lay the ^ever'd nose, alas ! 

Beside the daisies on the grass, 

*' Wee, crimson-tipt " as well as they, 

According to the poet's lay : 

And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter I 

Away ran Hodge to get assistance. 

With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after| 

But somewhat at unusual distance. 

In many a little country-place 

It is a very common case 

To have but one residing doctor. 

Whose practice rather seems to be 

No practice, but a rule of three, 

Physician — surgeon — drug-decoctor ; 

Thus Hunks was forced to go once more 

Where he had ta'en his tooth before. 

His mere n;:me made the learn'd man hot, — 

** What ! Hunks again within my door ! 

« I'll pull his nose." Quoth Hunks, " You cannot.* 

The doctor look'd, and saw the case 
Plain .IS the nose not on his face. 
* Oh ! hum — ha— yes — I understand.* 
But then arose a long demur, 



A TRUE STORY. aij 

For not a finger would he stir 
Till he was paid his fee in hand ; 
That matter settled, there they were, 
With Hunks well strapp'd upon his chair. 

The opening of a surgeon's job — 
His tools — a chestful or a drawerful — 
Are always somethinjj;^ very awful. 
And give the heart the strangest throb ; 
But never patient in his funks 
Look'd half so like a ghost as Hunks, 
Or surgeon half so like a devil 
Prepared for some infernal revel : 
His hu:4e black eye kept rolling, rolling, 

iust like a bolus in a box : 
lis fury seem'd above controlling, 
He bellow'd like a hunted ox : 
*' Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how 
We treat such cheating knaves as thou ; 
Oh ! sweet is this revenge to sup ; 
1 have thee by the nose — it's now 
My turn — and I will turn it up," 

Guess how the miser liked this scurvy 
And cruel way of venting passion ; 
The snubbing folks in this new fashion 
Seem'd quite to turn him topsy-turvy ; 
He utter'd prayers and groans and curses, 
For things had often gone amiss 
And wrong with him before, but this 
Would be the worst of all reverses I 
In fancy he beheld his snout 
Turn'd upward like a pitcher's spout ; 
There was another grievance yet, 
And fancy did not fail to show it, 
That he must throw a summerset, 
Or stand upon his head, to blow it. 

And was there then no ar<jument 

To change the doctor's vile intent. 

And move his pity ? — yes, in truth, 

And that was — paying for the tooth. 

*' Zounds ! pay for such a stump ! I'd rather—* 

But here the menace went no farther, 

For, with his other ways of pinching, 

Hunks had a miser's love of snuff, 

A recollection strong enough 

To cause a very serious flinching; 

In short, he paid, and had the feature 

Replaced as it was meant by nature; 

For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle 



2l6 THE DECLLXE 01- MRS SHAKERLY, 

(No corpse's could have felt more horrid), 
And white, just like an end of candle, 
The doctor deem'd, and proved it too, 
That noses from the nose will do 
As well as nosts from the forehead j 
So, fix'd by dint of rag and lint. 
The part was banda-ed up and muffled. 
The chair unfasten'd, Hunks arose, 
And shuffled out, fur once unshuffled ; 
And as he went, these words he snuffled — 
"Well, this is ' paying through the nose.' " 




" Wholesale— Retail :ind for Exportation. 



T 



THE DECLINE OF MRS SHAKERLY. 

INWARDS the close of her life, my Aunt Sliakcrly increased 
rapidly in bulk : she kept adding growth unto her growth — 

" Giving a sum of more to that which had too much," — 

till the result was worthy of a Smithfield premium. It wns not the 
trium[)h, however, of any systematic diet for the prumoiion of fat 
(( xcept oyster-eating, there is no human system of j/rt//-fceding) ; on 
the contrary, she lived abstemiously, diluting her food with pickle-acids, 
and keeping frequent fasts, in order to reduce her compass ; but they 



THE DECLINE OF MRS SHAKERLY. 



217 



failed of this desirable effect. Nature had planned an oiig-inal tendency 
in her organisation that was not to be oveicome ; she \\ould have fat- 
tened on sour krout. 

My Uncle, on the other hand, decreased daily. Originally a little 
man, he became lean, shrunken, wizened. There was a predisposition 
in his constitution that made him spare, and kept him so : he would 
have fallen off, even on brewer s grains. 

It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to designate my Aunt, 
my Uncle, and the infant Shakerly, as " WHOLESALE, RETAIL, and 
FOR Exportation ; " and in truth, they were not inapt impersonations 
of that popular inscription — my Aunt a giantess, my Uncle a pigmy, 
and the child being " carried abroad." 

Alas ! of the three departments, nothing now remains but the Retail 
portion — my uncle, a pennyworth, a mere sample. 

It is upon record th it Dr Watts, though a puny man in person, took 
a fancy, towards his latter d;!v s, that he was too large to pass through 
a door — an error which Death shortly corrected by taking him through 
his own portal. My unhappy Aunt, with more show of reason, indulged 



:^^s: 







>) 




Pan deans. 

in a similar delusion. She conceived herself to have grown incor.- 

veniently cumbersome for the small village of , and my Uncle, to 

quiet her, removed to the metropolis. There she lived for some months 
in comparative ease, till at last un unlucky event recalled all her former 
inquietude. The elephant of JNIr Cross, a good feeder, and \\v,h a 
natural tendency to corpulence, throve so well on his rations, that, be- 
coming too huge for his den, he was obliged to be dispatched. Aly 
Aunt read tlie account in the newspapers, and the catastrophe, with its 
cause, took possession of her mind. She seemed to herself as that 



2l8 



TIM TURPIN. 



eleph'int. An intolerable sense of confinement and oppression haunted 
li.jr by clay and in her dreams. First she had a ti;^luness at her ehest, 
tiien in her limbs, then all over. She felt too big for her chair, then 
for her bed, then for her room, then for the house ! To divert her 
thought, my Uncle proposed to go to Paris ; but she was too huge for 
a boat, for a bar.i;e, for a packet, for a frigate, for a country, for a con- 
tinent ! " She was too big," she said, " for this world ; but she was 
going to one that is boundless." 

Nothing could wean her from this belief. Her whole tnlk was of 
"cumber grounds," of the "burthen of the flesh," and of "infinity," 
Sometimes her hend wandered, and she would then speak of disposing 
of the " bulk of her personds." 

In the meantime, her health decayed slowly, but perceptibly. She 
was dying, the doctor said, by inches. 

Now my Uncle was a kind husband, and meant tenderly, though it 
sounded untender ; but when the doctor said that she was dying by 
inches — 

" God forbid ! " cried my Uncle. " Consider what a great big crea- 
ture she is !" 




The Judges of A-Size. 

TIM TURPIN. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD. 



I. 



Tim Turpin he was gravel-blind, 
And ne'er had seen the skies : 

For Nature, when his head was made, 
Forgot to dot his eyes. 



TIM 7 UK PIN. 2t9 



II. 



So, like a Christmas pedagogue, 
Poor Tim was forced to do — 

Look out for pupils ; for he had 
A vacancy for two. 



III. 



There's some have specs to help their sight 

Of objects dim and small : 
But Tim had specks within his eyes, 
And could not see at ail. 



IV. 



Now Tim he woo'd a servant maid. 
And took her to his arms ; 

For he, like Pyramus, had cast 
A wall-eye on her charms. 



V. 



By day she led him up and down, 
W'here'er he wish'd to jog, 

A happy wife, althu' she led 
The life of any dog. 



VI. 

But just when Tim had lived a mondl 

In honey with his wife, 
A sur^ieon oped his Milton eves, 

Like oysters, with a kniie. 

VII. 

But when his eyes were open'd thus, 
He wish'd them dark again : 

For when he look'd upon his wife, 
He saw her very plain. 

VIII. 

Her face was bad, her figure worsc^ 

He couldn't bear to eat : 
For she was anything but like 

A Grace before his meat 

IX. 

Now Tim he was a feeling man : 
For when his si;^ht was thick. 

It made him feel for everythmg— 
But that was with a stick. 



■ao TIM TURPIN. 



X. 



So, with a cudgel in his hand- 
It was not li^ht or slim — 

He knock'd at his wife's head until 
It open'd unto him. 

XI. 

And when the corj se was stiff and coldy 
He took his slau^^^titer'd spouse. 

And laid her in a lieap with all 
The ashes of her house. 

XII; 

But like a wicked murderer, 

He lived in constant fear 
From day to day, and so lie cot 

His throat from ear to ear, 

XIII. 

The neighbours fetch'd a doctor in > 
Said he, " This wound I dread 

Can hardly be sew'd up — his life 
Is hanging on a tliread." 

XIV. 

But when another week was gone, 
He gave him stronger hope — 

Instead of h .nging on a thread, 
Of hanging on a rope. 

XV. 

Ah ! when he hid liis bloody worK, 

In ashes round about, 
How little he supposed the truth 

Would soon be sifted uat. 

XVI. 

But when the parish dustman camet 

His rubbish to withdraw, 
He found more- dust within the heap 

Than he contracted for 1 

XVII. 

A dozen men to try the fact, 

Were sworn that very day ; 
But tho' they all were jurors, yet 

Is'o conjurors were they. 



TIM TURPIN. 221 



XVIII. 



Said Tim unto those jurymen, 
You need not waste your breathy 

For I confess myself at once 
The author of her death. 

XIX. 

And, oh ! when I reflect upon 
The blood that I have spilt. 

Just like a button is my soul, 
Inscribed with double ^««7// 

XX. 

Then turning round his head again, 

He saw before his eyes 
A great judge and a little judge, 

The judges of a-size 1 

XXI. 

The great judge took his judgment-cap^ 

And put it on his head, 
And sentenced Tim by law to hang 
Till he was three times dead. 

XXII. 

So he was tried, and he was hung 

(Fit punishment for such) 
On Horsham-drop, and none can say 

It was a drop too much. 





Brute Emancipation. 



THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 

A FABLE. 

" God help ttiee, said I, but I'll let thee out, cost what it will : so I turned abouj the cage t* 
get to the door." — Sterne. 



'TiS Strange what awkward fi5:jures and odd capers 
Folks cut who seek their doctrine from the papers ; 

But there are many shallow politicians 
Who take their bias from bewilder'd journals — 

Turn state physicians, 
And make themselves fools'-caps of the diurnals. 



One of this kind, not human, hut a monkey, 
Had read himself at last to thi^ sour creed, 
That he was nothing but Oppression's flunkey. 
And man a tyrant uvcr all his breed. 

He could not read 
Of niggers whipt, or over-trampled weavers, 
But he applied their wrons,'S to his own seed, 
And nouiish'd thougiits that threw him into fevers. 
His very dreams were full of martial beavers, 
And dnllin,; Pugs, for liberty pugnacious, 

To sever chains vexatimis. 
In fact, he thought that all his injured Ime 
Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'em 
Till they had clear'd a road to Freedom's siirine, 
Unless, perchance, the turn-pike men ."^hould stop 'em. 



THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 223 

IIL 

Full of this rancour, 
Pacing one day beside St Clement Dunes, 

It came into his brains 
To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor { 
Where certain solemn sages of the nation 
Were at that moment in deliberation 
How to relieve the wide world of its chains, 

Pluck despots down, 

And thereby crown 
Whitee- as well as blackee-man-cipation. 
Pug heard the speeches with great approbation, 
And gazed with pride upon the Liberators ; 

To see mere coalheavers 

Such perfect Bolivars — 
Waiters of inns sublimed to innovators — 
And slaters dignified as legislators- 
Small publicans demanding (such their high sense 
Of liberty) an universal licence — 
And patten-makers easing Freedom's clogs— 

The whole thing seem'd 

So fine, he deem'd 
The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs ! 

IV. 

Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, 
Walk'd out at last, and turn'd into the Strand, 

To the left hand, 
Conning some portions of the previous twaddle, 
And striding with a step that seem'd design'd 
To represent the mighty March of Mind, i 

Instead of that slow waddle 
Of thought to which our ancestors inclined- 
No wonder, then, that he should quickly find 
He stood in front of that intrusive pile, 

Where Cross keeps many a kind 

Of bird confined, 
And free-born animal, in durance vile — 
A thought that stirr'd up all the monkey-bile, 

V. 

The window stood ajar — 

It wns not far, 
Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb — 
The hour was verging on the supper-time. 
And many a growl was sent through many a bar. 
Meanwhile Pug scrambled upward like a tar, 

And soon crept in, 

Unnoticed in the din 
Of tuneless throats, that made the attics ring 
With all the harshest notes that they could bring ; 



«34 THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 

For, like tlie Jews, 
Wild beasts refuse 
In midst of their captivity — to sing. 

VI. 
Lord, how it made him chafe. 
Full of his new emancipating zeal, 
To look around upon this brute-bastile. 
And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! 
The desert's denizen in one small den, 
Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — • 
A bear in bars unbearable. And then 
The fretful porcupine, with all its quills 

Imprison'd in a pen ! 
A tiger limited to four feet ten, 

And, still worse lot, 

A leopard to one spot ! 

An elephant enlarged. 

But not discharged 
(It was before the elephant was shot) ; 
A doleful wanderow, that wander'd not ; 
An ounce much disproportion'd to his pound. 

Pug's wrath uax'd hot 
To gaze upon these captive creatures round ; 
Whose claws— all scratching — gave him full assurance 
They found their durance vile of vile endurance. 

VII. 

He went above — a solitary mounter 

Up gloomy stairs — and saw a pensive group 

Of hapless fowls — 

Cranes, vultures, owls ; 
In fact, it was a sort of Poultry-Compter, 
Where feather'd prisoners were doom'd to droop; 
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop, 
Not from the skies, but his impending roof; 

And there aloof, 
A pining ostrich, moping in a coop ; 
With other samples of the bird creation. 
All caged against their powers and their wills ; 
And cramp'd in such a space, the longest bills 
Were plainly bills of least accommodation. 
In truth, it was a very ugly scene 
To fall to any liberator's share, 
To see those winged fowls, that once had been 
Free as the wind, no freer than fix'd air. 

VIII. 
Kis temper little mended. 
Pug from this Bird-cage Walk nt last descended 
Unto the lion and the eleiihant. 
His bo-oin in a p.aiit 
To lee all Nature's Free List thus suspended, 



BANDITTI, S85 

And beasts deprived of whit she had intended. 

They could not even prey 

In the"r own way — 
A hardship alwa\ s reckon'd quite prodigious. 

Thus he revolved, 

And soon resolved 
To give them freedom, civil and religious. 

IX. 
That nipi^ht there were no country cousins, raw 
From Wales, to view the lion and his kin : 
The keeper's eyes were fix'd upon a saw ; 
The saw was fix'd upon a bullock's shin : 

Meanwhile with stealthy paw, 

Pug hasten'd to withdraw 
The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. 
Now, mon;irch of the forest ! thou shalt win 
Precious enfranchisement — thy bolts are undone; 
Thou art no longer a degraded creature, 
But loose to roam with liberty and nature, 
And free of all the jungles about London — 
Ail Hampstead's heathy desert lies before thee I 
Methinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark 
Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee, 

And turn a ranger 
Of Hounslow Forest and the Regent's Park — 
Thin Rhodes's cows — the mail-coach steeds endanger, 
And gobble parish watchmen after dark. 
Methinks I see thee, with the early lark, 
Stealing to Merlin's cave {thy cave). Alas, 
That such bright visions should not come to pass 1 
Alas for freedom, and for freedom's hero 1 

Alas for liberty of life and limb 1 
For Pug had only half unbolted Nero, 

When Nero boiled him I 

BANDITTI. 

OF all the saints in the Calendar, none has suffered less from the 
Reformation than St Cecilia, the great patroness of Music. 
Lofty and lowly are her votaries — many and magnificent are her holi- 
day festivals — and her common service is performing at all hours of 
the day. She has nut only her regular high-priests and priestesses ; 
but, like the Wesleyans, her itinerants and street-missionaries, to make 
known her worship in the highways and in the byways. Nor is the 
homage confined to the people of one creed ; — the Protestant exalts 
her on his b; rrel-organ — the Catholic with her tambourine — the wan- 
dering Jew with his Pan's-pipe and double drum. The group over-kaf 
was sketched from a compnny of these '• Strolling Players." 

It must 1 e confessed th;it their service is sometimes of a kind rather 
to drive ang. Is higher into heaven, than to entice them eart>Tvard|* 



226 



BANDITTI. 



and there are certain retired streets — near the Adelphi, for instance-^ 
where such half-hourly deduciions from the natural quiet of the situa- 
tion should justly be considered in the rent. Some of the choruses^ 
in truth, are beyond any but a saintly endurance. Conceive a brace 
of opposition tirgans, a fife, two hurdygurdies, a clarionet, and a 
quartette of decayed mariners, all clubbing their music in common, on 
the very principle of Mr Owen's New Harmojtyl 

In the Journal of a recent Traveller through the Papal States there 
is an account of an adventure witti Neapolitan robbers that would 
serve, w^th very slight alterations, for the description of an encounter 
with our own banditti. 

" To-day Mrs Graham and I mounted our horses and rode towards 
Islington. W e had not proceeded far when we heard sounds as of 
screaming and groaning, and presently a group of men appeared at 
the turn of the road. It. was too ctrtain that we had lallen in vv.vid one 




of these roving bands. Escape w.is impossible, as they extended 
across the road. Their leader was the celebraud Flanigan, notorious 
for his murder of Fair Ellen, and the Bewildered Maid. One of the 
fellows advanced close ud to Mrs G., and puttin^r his instrument u) 
her ear, threatened to blow out her brains. We uave them vvh t 
coppers we had, and were allowed to proceed. We were informed l)y 
the country-people that a gentlewoman and her daughter had been 
detained by them, near the same spot, ami robbed of their hearings, 
with circumstances of great barbarity ; FianigaU; in the meantime, 
standing by with his pipe in his mouth ! 

"Innumerable other travellers have been stopped and tortured by 
these wretches till they gave up their money ; and yet these excesses 
are winked at by the police. In the meantime, the Government, does 
not interfere, in the hope, perhaps, th<.t some day these gangs may be 
broken up and separated by discord amongst themselves." 



DEATH'S RAMBLE. 



^ 



Sometimes, to the eye of fexncy, these wanderini;- minstrels assume 
another charncter, and ilUistrate ColHns's "Ode on the P.issions " m 
a way that might edify Miss Macaulay. First, Fear, a blind harprr, 
lays his bewildered hand amongst the chords, but recoils back at tlie 
sound of an approaching carriage. An^^er, with starting eyeballs, 
blows a rude clash on the bugle-horn ; and Despair, a snipe-faced wight, 
bejjuiles his grief with low suhen sounds on the bassoon. Hope, a 
consumptive Scot, with golden hair and a cl.irionet, indulges, like the 
flatterer hersdf, in a thousand fantastic flourishes beside the tune — 
with a lingering quaver at the close ; and would quaver longer, but 
Revenge shakt s his matted locks, blows a fresh alarum on his pandeans, 
and thumps, with double heat his double-drum. Dejected Pity, at his 
side, a hunger-bitten urchin, applies to his silver-toned triangle ; whilst 
Jealousy, sad proof of his distracted state, grinds on, in all sorts of 
time, at his barrel-ort;an. With eyes upraised, pale Melancholy sings, 
retired and unheeded, at the corner of the street ; and Mirth, — yonder 
he is, a brisk little Savoyard, jerking away at the hurdygurdy. and 
dancing himself at the same time, to render his jig-tune more jigging. 




•'Dust oi" 



DEATH'S RAMBLE. 

One day the dreary old King of Death 
Inclined for some sport with the carnaV 

So he tied a pack of d.uts on his back, 
And quietly stole from his charnel. 



■28 DEATH'S RAMBLE. 

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, 

His body was lean and lanlc, 
His joints at each stir made a crAck, and the CUT 

Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank. 

And what did he do with his deadly darts, 

This goblin of grisly bone ? 
He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd 

Like a butcher that kills his own. 

The first he slaughter'd it made him laugh 
(For the mm was a coffin-maker), 

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, 
Would mourn for an undertaker. 

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church, 

Quoth he, " We shall not differ;" 
And he let them alone, like figures of ston^ 

For he could not make them stiffer. 

He saw two duellists going to fight, 

In fear they could not smother ; 
And he shot one through at once — for he knew 

They never would shoot each other. 

He saw a watchman fast in his box. 

And he gave a snore mfernal ; 
Said Death, " He may keep his breath, for his sleep 

Can never be more eternal." 

He met a coachman driving his coach 

So slow that his fare grew sick ; 
But he let him stray on his tedious way. 

For Death only wars on the quick. 

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll, 

In the spirit of his fraternity ; 
But he knew that sort of man would extort, 

Though summon'd to all eternity. 

He found nn nuthor writing his life, 

But he 1ft him write no further ; 
For Deatli. who strikes whenever he likes, 

Is jealous of nil self-muriher ! 

Death saw a patient that iniU'd out his purse. 

And a doctor that took the sum ; 
But he let them be — for he kn-'w tliat the "fee" 

Was a prelude to " faw " and " luin." 



CRANIOLOGY. 

He met a dustman ringing a bell, ^ 
And he gave him a mortal thrust ; 

For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, 
Is contractor for all our dust. 

He saw a sailor mixing his grog, 
And he mark'd him out for slaughter ; 

For on water he scarcely had c.red for Death) 
And never on rum-and-water. 

Death saw two players playing at cards, 
But the game wasn't worth a dump, 

For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, 
To wait for the final trump I 



229 




Crane-iology. 



CRANIOLOGY. 

TlS strange how like a very dunce, 
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce, 
Has lived so long, and vet no knowledo-e he 
Has had, till lately, of Phrenology— " 



1^ CRANIOLOGY. 



A science that by simple dint of 
Hcad-conabing he should find a hint of, 
Wiien scratching o'er those little ])ole-hills 
The faculties throw up like mole-hills ;— 
A science that, in verv spite 
Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light ; 
For though he knew his skull h.id^n'nderSf 
Still there turn'd up no oro^an-finders, 
Still sages wrote, and ages fled, 
And no man's head came in his head- 
Not even the pate of Erra Pater 
Knew aught about its pia mater. 
At last greit Dr Gall bestirs him — 
I don't know but it might be Sinuzheim— " 
Tho' native of a dull and slow land. 
And makes partition of our Poll-land J 
At our Acqui-iliveness guesses, 
And all those necessary nesses 
Indicative of human habits, 
All burrowing in the head like rabbits. 
Thus Veneration, he m:!de known, 
PI ad got a lodging at the Crown ; 
And Music (see Devillr's examjile) 
A set of chambers in the Temple ; 
That Language taught the tongues close bjf 
And took in pupils thro' the eye. 
Close by his neighbour Computation, 
Who taught the eyebrows numeration. 

The science thus — to speak in fit 

Terms — having struggled from its nit, 

Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen, 

Those scientilical hotch-potch men, 

Who have at least a penny dip 

And wallop in all doctorship, 

Just as in making broth they smatter 

By bobbing twenty thin^^s in water : 

These men, I sp.y, made quick appliance, 

And close, to phrenologic science; 

For of all learned themes whatever. 

That schools and colleges deliver, 

There's none they love so near the bodies, 

As analysing their own noddles ; 

Thus in a trice each northern blockhead 

Had got his fingers in his shock head, 

And of his bumps was babbling yet worse 

Than po'ir Miss Cnpulet's dry wet-nurse ; 

Till having been sufficient rangers 

Of their own heads, they took to strangers', 

And found in Presbyterians' polls 

The things they hated in their souls j 



CRANIOLOGY. 9^ 

For Presbyterians hear with passion 
Of organs joined with veneration. 
No kmd there was of hum.m pumpkin 
But at its butnps it liad a bumpkin, 
Down CO the very lowest gullion, 
And oiliest scull of oily scullion. 
No great man died bui this they didAo^ 
They begg'd his cranium of his widow : 
No murderer died by law disaster, 
But they took off his sconce in plaster ; 
J'or thereon they could show depending 
"The head and front of his offending :" 
How that his philanthropic bump 
Was master'd by a baser lump ; 
For every bump (these wags insist) 
Has its direct antagonist, 
Each striving stoutly to prevail, 
Like horses knotted tail to tail ; 
And many a stiff and sturdy battle 
Occurs between these adverse cattle: 
The secret cause, beyond all quebtion, 
Of aches ascribed to indigestion, — 
Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals 
Tueging together like sheer devils, 
Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, 
And comes in like a new prime minister. 

Each bias in some master node is : — 
What takes M'Adam where a road is. 
To hammer little pebbles less ? 
His organ of Destructiveness. 
What makes great Joseph so encumber 
Debate ? a lumping lump of Number : 
Or Malthus rail at babies so ? 
The smallness of his Philopro. 
What severs man and wife ? a simple 
Delect of the Adhesive pimple : 
Or ma.kes weak women go astray? 
Their bumps are more in fault than they. 

These facts being found and set in order 
By grave M.D.'s beyond the Border, 
To make them for some few months eternal. 
Were enter'd monthly in a journal, 
That many a northern sage still writes in, 
And throws his little Northern Lights in, 
And proves and proves about the phrenos 
A great deal more than I or he knows: 
How Music suiidY?,, par exeinple, 
By wearing tight hats round the temple j 
What ills great boxers have to fear 
From blisters put behind the ear ; 



23* 



AN AFFAIR OF HOXOUR. 

And how a porter's Veneration 

Is hurt by porter's occupation ; 

Whether shillela;^hs in reality 

May deaden Individuality ; 

Or tongs and poker be creative 

Of alterations in th' Amative ; 

If f.ills from scaffolds make us less 

Inclined to all Conslructiveness : 

With more such matters, all applying 

To heads — and therefore /iifrt^/iiying. 




Honour calls him to the field." 



AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 

" AND those were the only duels," concluded the major, "that ever 
t\ I fought in my life." 

Now the major reminded me strongly of an old boatman at Hastings, 
who, after a story of a swimmer that was snapjjed asunder by a "sea 
attorney" in the West Indies, made an end in the same f-ishion : — 
"And that was the only time," said he, " I ever saw a man bit in two 
by a shark." 

A single occurrence of the kind seemed sufficient for the experience 
of one life ; and so I reasoned upon the major's nine duels. He must, 
in the first place, have Ijeen not only jealous and swift to quarrel ; but, 
in tlie second, have met with nine intemperate spirits equally forward 
with himself. It is but in one afiront out of ten that the duellist meets 
with a duellist : a computation assigning ninety mortal disagreements 
to his single share ; whereas I, with equal irritability, and as much 
courage perhaps, had never exchanged a card in my life. The subject 
occupied me all the walk homeward through the meadows. "To get 
involved in nine duels,'' said I ; ""tis quite improbable !" 

As I thought thus, I had thrust my body halfway under a rough bar 
that was doing duty for a stile at one end of a field. It was just too 
high to climb comfortably, and just low enough to be inconvenient to 



AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR. 233 

duck under ; but I chose the latter mode, and began to creep through 
with the deliberateness consistent wiih dr)ubtful and intricate specula- 
tion. '* To get involved in nine duels" — here my back hitched a little 
at the bar — '"'tis quite impossible !" 

I am persuaded that there is a spirit of mischief afoot in the world 
—some malignant fiend to seize upon and direct these accidents : for 
just at this nick, whilst I was boggling below the bar, there came up 
another passenger by the same path : so seeing how matters stood, he 
made an attempt at once to throw his leg over the impediment ; but 
mistaking the altitude by a few inches, he kicked me — where I had 
never been kicked before. 

" By Heaven ! this is too bad," said I, staggering through head fore- 
most from the concussion ; my back was up, in every sense, in a second. 

The stranger apologised in the politest terms — but with such an 
intolerable chuckle, with such a provoking grin lurking about his face, 
that I felt fury enoui^h, like Beatrice, to "eat his heart in the market- 
place." In short, in two little minutes, from venting my conviction 
upon duelling, I found myself engaged to a meeting for the vindication 
of my honour. 

There is a vivid description in the "History of Robinson Crusoe" of 
the horror of the solitary Mariner at finding the mark of a foot in the 
sandy beach of his Desert Island. I'hat abominable token, in a place 
that he fancied was sacred to himself — in a part, he made sure, never 
trodden by the sole of man — haunted him wherc\er he went. So did 
mine. I bore about with me the same ideal imprint — to be washed 
out, not by the ocean brine, but with blood ! 

As I walked homeward after this adventure, and reflected on my 
former opinions, I felt that I had done the gallant major an injustice. 
It seemed likely that a man of his profession might be called out even 
to the ninth time — nay, that men of the peaceiul cloth might, on a 
chance, be obliged to have recourse to mortal combat. 

As for Gentlemen at the Bar, I have shown how they may get into 
an Affair of Honour in a twinkling. 




A Special Pleader. 



234 




A Retrospective Review. 



A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 

' Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."^ROGERSi 



Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, 

And lift up a little Oblivion's veil ; 
Let's consider the past with a lingerinc^ S^ze, 

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail. 



II. 



Ay, come, let us turn our attention behind, 

Like those critics whose lieads are so heavy, I fear, 

That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, 
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear. 



III. 



Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail. 
Oh ! what ages and pa:4es there are to revise ! 

And as farther our back-searcliing glances prevail, 
Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes !" 



A PARTHIAN GLANCE. f^S 



IV. 



What a sweet pretty innocent, half-n-^•ard long, 

On a dimity lap of true nursery make ! 
I can fancy I hear the old luU.iby song 

That was meant to compose me,, but kept me awake. 



Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, 

When my flesh was a cus'nujn for any long pin— 

Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, 

Oh ! how little they dreamt they were driving them in ! 

VI. 

Infant sorrows are strong — infant pleasures as weak— 
But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note ; 

Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak," 
Thro' the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat? 

VII. 

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce? 

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same? 
Oh ! I can't but aj^ree with both ends, and pronounce 

"Head or tails" with a child, an unpleasantish game ! 

VIII. 

Then an urchin — I see myself urchin, indeed. 

With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight ; 

Why should weeks have an end ? — I am sure there was need 
Of a Sabbath to follow each Saturday-night 

IX. 

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub ? 

Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand ? 
Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, 

And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand? 

X. 

Then a schoolboy — my tailor was nothing in fault, 
For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees, — 

But iiow well I remember that " pepper and salt," 
That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees t 

XI. 

Wha.t a, figure it cut when as Norval I spoke t 
With a ianky right leg duly planted before ; 

Whilst I told (tf the chief thit uas kill'd by my stroke, 
And extended 7)iy arms as " the arms that he wore ! " 



ajtf A SAILOJVS APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS, 

XII. 

Next a Lover — Oh ! say, were you ever in love ? 

With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot f 
Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove? 

Like a l/eau that desired to be tied in a knot 1 

XIII. 

With the Bride all in white, nnd your body in blue, 
Did you walk up the aisle — the genteelest of men ? 

When I think of that beautiful vision anew, 
Oh 1 I seem but the biffin of what I was then 1 

XIV. 

I am wither'd and worn by a premature care, 
And my wrinkles confess the decline of my days; 

Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair. 
And I'm seeking to hide it — by writmg for bays t 



A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS, 

There's some is born with their legs straight by natur— 

And some is born with bow-legs from the first — 

And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter 

But they were badly nursed. 
And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs 

Astride of casks and kegs. 
I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard 

And starboard, 
And this is what it was that warp'd my legs ^— 

'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say, 
That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; 

But on the tenth of May, 

When I gets under weigh, 
Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship, 

I sees the mail 

Get under sail. 
The only one there was to make the trip. 

Well, I gives chase, 

But as she run 

Two knots to one, 
There warn't no use in keeping on the race I 

Well, casting round about what next to try on. 

And how to spin, 
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, 
And bears away to leeward for the inn, 

Beats round the gable, 



A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 237 

And fetches up before the coach-horse stable. 
Well, there they stand, four kickers in a row, 

And so 
I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. 
But riding isn't in a seaman's natur ; 
So I whips out a toughish end of yarn, 
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter 

To splice me, heel to heel. 

Under the she-mare's keel, 
And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-stam I 

My eyes ! how she did pitch ! 
And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, 
Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line. 
But always making lee-way to the ditch, 
And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. 

The devil sink the craft ! 
And wasn't she trimendus slnck in stays ! 
We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft ! '' 

Well, I suppose 
We hadn't run a knot — or much beyond— 
(What will you have on it ?) — but off she goes. 
Up to her bends in a fresh-wnter pond ! 

There I am ! all a-back ! 
So I looks forward for her bridle-gears. 
To heave her head round on the t'other tack: 

But when I starts, 

The Icfither parts, 
And goes away right over by the ears 1 

What could a fellow do, 
Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, 
But trim myself upright for bringirsg-to. 
And square his yaj-d-amis, and brace up his elbows, 

In rig all snug and clever, 
lust while his cnift was taking in her water? 
I didn't like my burth, though, howsomdever. 
Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tnughter. 
Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter ! 

The chase hnd gain'd a mile 
A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking t 

Now, all the while 
Her body didn't take, of course, to shrinking. 
Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking ; 

And so she swell'd, and swell'd. 

And yet the tackle held, 
*Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. 
My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder 1 
And there's mv timbers straining every bit, 

Ready to split, 
And her tarnation hull a-L;rowing rounder! 



838 " NOTHING BUT HEARTS!'' 

Well, there— off Hartford Ness, 
We lay both lash'd and vvater-logg'd to.^'ether, 

And can't contrive a signal of distress. 
Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, 
Tho' sick of riding out, and nothing less ; 
When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : 
" Hollo ! " says I, " come underneath her quarter t " 
And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. 
So I gets off, and lands upon the road, 
And leaves the she-mare to her own consam, 

A-stanciing by the water. 
If I get on another, I'll be blow'd ! 
And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd ( 




she is all heart.' 



" NOTHING B UT HEARTS r 

IT must have been the lot of every whist-player to observe a pheno 
menon at the card-table as mysterious as any in nature, — I 
mean the constant recurrence of a certain trump throughout the night 
— a run upon a particular suit, that sets all the calculations of Hoyle 
and Cocker at defiance. The chance of lurning-up is equal to the 
Four Denominations. They should alternate with each other, on the 
average; whereas a Heart, perhaps, shall be the. last card of evcrv 
deal. King or Queen, Ace or Deuce, still it is of the same clan, You 
cut — and it comca av;aia. " Nothing but Hearts I " 



" NO TIinWG BUT HE A f TSI " 139 

The figure on the other side might be fancied to embody this kind of 
occurrence ; and, in truth, it was designed to commemorate an even- 
ing dedicated to the same red suit. I had looked m by chance at 
the Royal Institution: a Mr Professor Pattison, of New York, I 
believe, was lecturing, and the subject was — "Nothing but Hearts !" 

Some hundreds of grave, curious, or scientific personages were 
ranged on the benches of the Theatre ; — every one in his solemn bl-.ck. 
On a table in front of the Professor stood the specimens . hearts of 
all shapes and sizes — man's, wom.m's, sheep's, bullock's — on platters 
or in cloths — were lying about as familiar as household v\aies. 
Drawings of hearts, in black or blood-red (dismal valentines !) hung 
around the fearful walls. Preparations of the organ, in wax or botth d, 
passed currently from hand to hand, from eye to eye, and returned to 
the gloomy table. It was like some solemn Egyptian Inquisition — a 
looking into dead men's hearts for their morals. 

The Professor rjegan. Each after each he displayed the samples; 
the words ''auricle" and "ventricle" falling frequtntly on the ear as 
he explained how those "solemn organs ' pum,) in the human breast. 
He showed, by experiments with water, the operation of the valves 
with the blood, and the impossibility of its revulsion. As he spoke, 
an indescribable thrilling or tremor crept over my left breast — thence 
down my side — and all over. I felt an awful consciousness of the 
bodily presence of my heart, till then nothing more tha.n it is in song 
— a mere metaphor — so imperceptible are all the grand vital workings 
of the human frame ! Now I felt the organ distinctly. There it 
was ! — a fleshy core — ay, like //la^ on the Prolessor's pi ae — throbbing 
away, auricle and ventricle, the valve allowing the gushing blood at 
so many gallons per minute, and ever prohi'oitin;4 its return ! 

The Professor proceeded to enlarge on the important office of the 
great functionary, and the vital engme seemed to dilate within me, in 
proportion to the sense of its stupendous resp<msibility. 1 seemed 
nothing but auricle and ventricle and valve. I had no breath, but 
only pulsations. Those who have been present at anatomical dis- 
cussions can alone conoborate this feeling — how the part discoursed 
of, by a surpassing sympathy and sensibility, causes its counterpart to 
become prominent and all-engrossing to the sense ; how a lecture on 
hearts makes a man seem to himself as all heart ; or one on heads 
causes a Phrenologist to conceive he is " all brain." 

Thus was I absorbed : — my "bosom's lord" lording over cvervthing 
beside. By and by, in lieu of one soluar\' machine, I saw before me 
a congregation of hundreds of human forcing-pumps, all awfully work- 
ing toi^ether — the palpitations of hundreds of auricles and ventricles, 
the flapping of hundieds of valves ! And anon they coll ipsed — mine 
— the Professor's — those on the benches — all! all ! — into one great 
auricle — one great ventricle — one vast universal heart ! 

The lecture ended — I took up my hat and walked out, but the dis- 
course haunted me. I was full of the subject. A kind of fluttering, 
wliich was not to be cured even by the fresh air. gave me plamly to 
urderstand that my heart was not "in the Highlands,'' — nor in any 
lady's keeping — but where it ought to be, in my own bosom, and as 
hard at work as a parish pump. I plainly felt the blood — like the 



tfo yACIC HAIL. 

carriages on a birth-night — coming in by the auricle, and going out 
by the ventricle ; and shuddered to fancy what must ensue either way, 
from any " breaking the Hne." Then occurred to me the danger of 
little particles absorbed in the blood, and accumulating to a stoppage 
at the valve, — the " pumps getting choked," — a su,ir,L;e3tion that made 

tne feel rather qualmish, and for relief I made a call on Mrs W . 

The visit was ill-chosen and mistimed ; for the lady in questian, by 
dint of good-nature and a romantic turn — principally estimated by 
her young and female acquaintance — had acquired the reputation of 
being "all heart." The phrase had often provoked my mirth, — but, 
alas ! the description was now over-true. Whether nature had 
formed her in that mould, or my own distempered fancy, I know not 
— but there she sate, and looked the Professor's lecture over again. 
She was like one of those games alluded to in my beginning — " No- 
thing but Hearts ! " Her nose turned up. Tt was a heart — and her 
mouth led a trump. Her face gave a heart — and her cap followed 
suit. Her sleeves puckered and plumped themselves into a heart- 
shape — and so did her body. Her pin-cushion was a heart — the very 
back of her chair was a heart — her bosom was a heart She was 
" all heait " indeed I 



JACK HALL. 



TlS very hard, when men forsake 
This melancholy world, and make 
A bed of turf, they cannot take 

A quiet doze, 
But certain rogues will come and break 

Their " bone repose,' 

IL 

Tis hard we can't give up our breath, 
And to the earth our earth bequeath, 
Without Death Fetches after death. 

Who thus exhume us ! 
And snatch us from our homes beneath, 

And hearths posthumoa» , 

IIL 

The tender lover comes to rear 

The mournful urn, and shed his tear— •• 

** Her glorious dust," he cries, " is herel* 

Alack ! alack ! 
The while his Sacharissa dear 

li in a sack 1 



JACK HALL. ^id 



IV. 

Tis hard one cannot lie amid 
The mould, beneath a coffin-lid, 
But thus the Faculty will bid 

Their rogues break thro^ it I 
If they don't want us there, why did 

They send us to it ? 

▼. 

One of these sacrilegious knaves, 
Who crave as hungry vulture craves, 
Behaving as the ghoul behaves, 

'Neath churchyard wall-* 
Mayhap because he fed on graves — 

Was named Jack HalL 

•VL 

By day it was his trade to go 
Tending the black conch to and fro ; 
And sometimes at the door of woe, 

With emblems suitably 
He stood with brother Mute, to show 

That life is mutable. 

But long before they pass'd the ferry. 
The dead that he had help'd to bury 
He sack'd — (he had a sack to carry 

The bodies off in ;) . 
In fact, he let them have a very 

Short fit of coffin. 

VIIL 

Night after night, with crow and spade^ 
He drove this dead but thriving trade, 
Meanwhile his conscience never weigh*d 

A single horsehair; 
On corses of all kinds he prey'd, 

A perfect corsair ! 

tx. 

At last — it may be, Death took spite, 
Or jesting, only meant to fright — 
He sought for Jack night after night 

The churchyards round ; 
And soon they met, the man and sprite, 

In Pancras' ground. • 



«4S JACK HALL. 



Jack, by the glimpses of the moon, 
Perceived the bony knacker soon, 
An awful shape to meet at noon 

Of night and lonely ; 
But Jack's tough courage did but swoon 

A minute only. 

XL 

Anon he gave his spade a swing 
Aloft, and kept it brandishing, 
Ready for what mishaps might spring 

From this conjunction ; 
Funking indeed was quite a thing 

Beside his function. 

XII. 

• Hollo ! " cried Death, " dVe wish your sandl 
Run out? the stoutest never stands 
A chance with me, — to my commands 

Tlie strongest truckles ; 
But I'm your friend — so let's shake hands, 

I should say — knuckles." 

XIII. 

Jack, glad to see th' old sprite so sprightly, 

And meaning nothing but uprightly, 
Shook hands at once, and bowing slightly, 

His mull did proffer : 
But Death, who had no nose, politely 

Declined the offer. 

XIV. 

TTien sitting down upon a bank^ 
Leg over leg, shank over shank, 
Like friends for conversation frank, 

That had no check on t 
Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank, 

" You're Death, I reckon.* 

XV. 

The Jawbone grinn'd : — " I am that same, 

You've hit exactly on my name ; 
In truth, it has some little fame 

Where burial sod is.* 
Quoth Jack (and wink'd), " Of course ye came 

Here after bodies." 



JACK HALL. 243 



xvi; 



Death grinn'd again and shook his head >— 
" I've little business with the dead ; 
When they are fairly sent to bed 

I've done my turn 
Whether or not the worms are fed 

Is your concern. 

XVII. 

** My errand here, in meeting you, 
Is nothing but a ' how-d'ye-do ;' 
I've done what jobs I had — a few 

Along this way ; 
If I can serve a crony too, 

I beg you'll say," 

XVIII. 

Quoth Jack, " Your Honour's very kind S 
And now I call the thing to mind, 
This parish very strict I find ; 

But in the next 'un 
There lives a very well-inclined 

Old sort of sexton.* 

XIX. 

Death took the hint, and gave a wink 
As well as eyelet-holes can blink ; 
Then stretching out his arm to link 

The other's arm, — 
"Suppose," says he, "we have a drink 

Of something warm.* 

XX. 

Jack, nothing loth, with friendly ease 
Spoke i^p at once : — " Why, what ye please | 
Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese, 

A famous tap." 
But this suggestion seem'd to tease 

The bony chap. 

XXI. 

** No, no ? — your mortal drinks are heady. 
And only make my hand unsteady ; 
I do not even care for Deady, 

And loithe your rum ; 
But I've some glorious brewage ready, 

My drmk is — mum ! " 



244 



JACK HALL. 

XXII. 

And off they set, each right content — 
Who knows the dreary way they went? 
But Jack felt rather faint and spent, 

And out of breath ; 
At last he saw, quite evident, 

The door of Death. 




Death's Door. 



XXIII. 



! qquc ' 



All other men had been unmann'd 
To see a coffin on each hand, 
That served a skeleton to stand 

By way of sentry; 
In fact, Death has a very grand 

And awful entry. 



XXIV. 

«Y'Throughout his dismal sign prevails, 
His name is writ in coffin nails; 
The mortal darts m:'ke .nrea mils ; 

A skull that mocketh 
Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails 
Whoever knockelh. 



yACJir HALL. 14J 

XXV. 

And lo ! on either side arise 

Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs; 

A monumental slab supplies 

The step of stone, 
Where, waiting for his master, lies 

A dog of bone. 

XXVI. 

The dog leapt up, but gave no yell, 
The wire was puU'd, but \\ oke no bell. 
The ghastly knocker rose and fell, 
;; But caused no riot ; 

The ways of Death, we all know well, 
Are very quiet. 

XXVII. 

Old Bones slept in ; Jack stept behind ; 
Quoth Death, " 1 really hope you'll find 
The entertainment to your mind, 

As 1 shall treat ye—' 
A friend or two of goblin kind 

I've ask'd to meet ye." 

XXVIH. 

And lo ! a crowd of spectres tall, 
Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall. 
Were standmg — every ghastly ball 

An eager watcher. 
* My friends," says Death — " friends, Mr HlJ^ 

The body-snatcher," 

XXIX. 

Lord ! what a tumult it produced 
When Mr Hall was introduced ! 
Jack even, who had lon^ been used 

To frightful things, 
Felt just as if his back was sluiced 

With freezing springs I 

XXX. 

Each goblin face began to mnke 

Some horrid mouth — ape — gorgon — snake* 

And then a spectre hag would shake 

An airy thigh-bone ; 
And cried (or seem'd to cry), " I'll break 

Your bone, with my bone »• 



M JACK HALL. 



XXXI. 

Some ground their teeth — some seem'd to spit 

(Nothing, but nothing came of it) ; 
A hundred awful brows were knit 

In dreadful spite. 
Thought Jack — I'm sure I'd better quit 

Without good-night. 

xxxri. 

One skip and hop and he was clear, 
And running like a hunted deer, 
As fleet as people run by fear 

Well spurr'd and whipp'd ; 
Death, ghosts, and all in that career 

Were quite outstripp'd. 

XXXIII. 

But those who live by death must die ; 
Jack's soul at last prepared to fly ; 
And when his latter end drew nigh. 

Oh, what a swarm 
Of doctors came,— but not to try 

To keep him warm. 

xxxiv. 

No ravens ever scented prey 
So early where a dead horse lay, 
Nor vultures sniff'd so far away 

A last convulse ; 
A dozen " guests " day after day 

Were " at his pulse* 

XXXV. 

Twas strange, altho' they got no fees. 
How still they watch'd by twos and threes : 
But Jack a very little ease 

Obtain'd from them ; 
In fact, he did not find M.D.'s 

Worth one D — M. 

XXXVI. 

The passing bell with hollow toll 
Was in his thought — the dreary hole 1 
Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll, 

And then a cough : — 
"There's something weighing; on my soul 

I wish WIS uff : 



JACK HALL, %/iif 



XXXVII. 



•All night it roves about my brains, 
All day it adds to all my pains ; 
It is concerning my remams 

When I am dead." 
Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes 

Drew near his bed. 

XXXVIII. 

« Alas 1 " he sigh'd, « I'm sore afraid, 
A dozen pangs my heart invade ; 
But when I drove a certain trade 

In flesh and bone, 
There was a little bargain made 

About my own." 

XXXIX. 

Twelve suits of black began to close, 
Twelve pair of sleek and sable hose, 
Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows, 

At once drew round ; 
Twelve noses turn'd against his nose, 

Twelve snubs profound 

XL. 

* Ten guineas did not quite suffice 
And so I sold my body twice ; 
Twice did not do — I sold it thrice : 

Forgive my crimes 1 
In short, I have received its price 

A dozen times I* 

XLI. 

Twelve brows got very grim and black, 
Twelve wishes stretch'd him on the racl^ 
Twelve pair of hands for fierce attack 

Took up position. 
Ready to share the dying Jack 

By long division. 

XLII. 

Twelve angr)' doctors wrangled so, 
Th^t twelve had struck an hour ago 
Before they had an eye to throw 

On the departed ; 
Twelve heads lurn'd round at once, and lo I 

Twelve doctors started. 



^h. 



THE WEE MAN. 



XLIII. 

Whether some comrnde of the dead, 

Or Satan took it in his head, 

To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled ! 

'Tis only written, 
That " there was nothing in the bedy 

But twelve were bitten I " 




A Hard Ruw. 



TBE WEE MAN. 



A ROMANCE. 



It was a merry company, 
And they were just afloat, 

"When lo ! a man of dwarfish span, 
Came up and hail'd the boat. 

t*" " Good morrow to ye, gentle folks. 
And will you let me in? ■ 

A slender space will serve my casCi 
For I am small and thin." 

They saw he was a dwnrfish man 
And very small and thin ; 

Not seven such would matter much, . 
And so they took him m. ', 

They laugh'd to see his little hat 
With such a narrow brim ; 

They 1 mgh'd to note his daprer coat. 
With skirts so scant and trim. 



THE WEE MAN. 849 

But barely had they gone a mile, 

When, gravely, one and all, 
At once began to think the man 

Was not so very small : 

His coat had got a broader skirt, 

His hat a broader brim, 
His leg grew stout, and soon plump'd out 

A very proper limb. 

Still on they went, and as they went, 

More rough the billov^■s grew, 
And rose and fell, a greater swell — 

And he was swelling too ! 

And lo ! where room had been for seven. 

For six there scarce was space ! 
For five ! — for four ! — for three I — not more 

Than two could find a place ! 

There was not even room for one I 

They crowded by degrees — 
Ay, closer yet, till elbows met, 

And knees were jogging knees. 

**Good sir, you must not sit a-stern, 

The wave will else come in ! " 
Without a word he gravely stirr'd 

Another seat to win. 

**Good sir, the boat has lost her trim, 

You must not sit a-lee ! " 
With smiling face, and courteous grace, 

The middle seat took he. 

But still by constant, quiet growth. 

His back became so wide, 
Each nei;4hbour wight, to left and right, 

Was thrust against the side. 

Lord ! how they chided with themselves, 

That they had let him in ; 
To see him grow so monstrous now. 

That came so small and thin. 

On every brow a dewdrop stood, 

They grew so scared and hot, — 
" r the name of all that's great and tall. 

Who are ye, sir, and what ? " 

Loud laughed the Gogmagog a laugh, 

As loud as giant's roar — 
" When first I came, my proper name 

Was Little— now I'm Moore ! " 



250 




Penn's Conference with the Natives. 



PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 



OF all creeds — after the Christian — I incline most to the Pytha- 
gorean. I like the notion of inhabiting the body of a bird. It 
is the next thing to being a cherub^ — at least, accordint; to the popular 
image of a boy's head and wings ; a fancy that savours strangely of 
the Pythngorean. 

I think nohly of the soul with Malvolio, but not so meanly as he 
does, by implicitmn, of a bird-body. What disnar.igement would it 
seem to shuffle off a crippled, palsied, languid, bedridden carcase, and 
find yourself floating above the world — in a flood of sunshine — under 
the featht rs of a Royal Eagle of the Andes ? 

For a beast-bod\ 1 have less relish — and yet how many men are 
there who seem predestined to such an occupancy, being in this life 
even more than semi-brutal ! How many liunian faces that at least 
countenance, if they do not confirm, this part of the Brahminicil 
doctrine ! What apes, foxes, pigs, curs, and cats, walk our metropolis 
—to say nothing of him shambling along Carnaby or Whitechapel — 



PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES, %%% 



A BUTCHER! 

Whoe'er has gone thro' London Street, 
Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat. 
And how he keeps 
Gloating upon a sheep's 
Or bullock's personals, as if his own ; 
How he admires his halves 
And quarters — and his calves, 
As if, in truth, upon his own legs grown ;— 

His fat ! his suet ! 
His kidneys peeping elegantly thro' it 1 
His thick flank ! 
And his thin ! 
His shank ! 
His shin 1 
Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone I 
• 

With what an air 
He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare 
Gazing — and will not let a body by, 
Tho' buy ! buy ! buy ! be constantly his cry. 
Meanwhile, with arms akimbo, and a pair 
Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare 
At his Joint Stock — for one may call it so, 

Howbeit without a Co. 
The dotage of self-love was never fonder 
Than he of his brute bodies all a-row ; 
Narcissus in the wave did never ponder 

With love so strong, 

On his " portrait charmant," 
As our vain Butcher on his carcase yonden 

Look at his sleek round skull ! 
How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is I 

His visage seems to be 

Ripe for beef-te.i ; 
Of brutal juices the whole man is fulL 
In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis, 
The Butcher is already half a Bull. 



Surpassing the Butcher in his approximation to the brute, behold 
yon vagrant Hass m, a wandering camel-driver and exhibitor, parading, 
for a fevv pence, the creature's outlandish hump, \et burthened himself 
with a bunch of flesh between the shoulders. For the sake of the 
implicit moral merely, or as an illustration of comparative physioloi,'y; 
the show is valuable ; but as an example of the Pythagorean dUpens:.- 



2^^ PYTHAGOREAN FANCIES. 

tion, it is above appraisement. The retributive metamorphosis has 
commenced— the Beast has set his seal upon the Human Furm — a 
little further, nnd he will be ready for a halter and a showman. 

As there are instances of men thus transmuting into the brute, so 
there are brutes that, by peculiar human manners and resemblance, 
Eeem to hint at a former and a better condition. The ouran-outang 
and the monkey notoriously claim this relationship ; and there are 
other tribes, and in particular some which use the erect posture, that 
are apt to provoke such Pythagorean associations. For example, I 
could never read of the great William Penn's interview with the 
American savages, or look on the painting commemorative of that 
event, without dreaming that I had seen it acted over again at the 
meeting of a tribe of Kangaroos and a Penguin. The Kangaroos, 
sharp-sighted, vigilant, cunning, wild, swift, and active as the Indians 
then.iselves ; the Penguin, very sleek, guiltless of arms, very taciturn, 
very sedate, except when jumping ; upright in its conduct — a perfect 




Quaker. It confirmed me, in this last fancy, to read of the conduct 

ot these gentle birds when ass.uiltcd, formerly, with long poles, by the 
seamen of Captam Cook — buffetings which the Penguins took quietly 
on, either cheek, or side of the head, and died as meekly and passively 
as the primitive Martyrs of the .Sect ! 

It is difficult to s y to what excesses the desire of fresh victual, 
after long salt-junketing, may drive a mariner. For my own part, I 
could not have handled a pole in that persecution without strong 
Pythagorean misgivings. 

There is a Juvenile Poem, "The Notorious Glutton," by Miss Tavlor 
of Ongar, in which a duck falls sick and dies in a very human-hke 



PYTHAGOREAN rANCIES. 



253 



way. I could never eat duck for some time after the perusal of those 
verses ; it seemed as if in reality the soul of my grandam might inhabit 
such a bird. In mere tenderness to past womanhood, I could never 
lay the death-scene elsewhere than in a lady's chamber, with the body 
of the invalid propped up by comfortable pillows on a nursery chair. 
Tlie sick attendant seem, d one that had relished drams aforetime — 
had been pompously officious at huinan dissolutiims, and would 
announce that "all was over \" with the same flapping of paws and 
(iuck-like inflections of tone. As for the Physician, he was an Ex- 
Qu.ick of our own kmd, just called in from the pond — a sort of Man- 
Drake, and formerly a brother by nature, as now by name, of the author 
of "Winter Nights." 




The Last Visit. 



254 




^=^n]inTMHITmjnr 



*' DON'T YOU SMELL FJRBf* 



Run ! run for St Clements's engine ! 

For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, 
And the pledges are frying and singeing — 

Oh ! how the poor pawners will craze ! 
Now where can the turncock be drinking? 

Was there ever so thirsty nn elf? 
But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking 

That the plugs are as dry as himself. 



The engines ! — I hear them come rumbling ; 

There's the Phoenix ! the Globe ! and the Sun I 
What a row there will l)e, and a grumbling, 

Whrn the water don't start for a run ! 
See ! there they come racing and tearing, 

All the street with loud voices is fill'd ; 
Oh ! it's only the firemen a-swenring 

At a man they've run over and kill'd ! 



•« DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE ! " 255 



in. 

How sweetly the sparks fly away now, 

And twinkle like stars in the sky. 
It's a wonder the engines don't play now ; 

But I never saw water so shy ! 
Why there isn't enough for a snipe, 

And the fire it is tiercer, alas ! 
Oh ! instead of the New River pipe, 

They have gone — that they have — to the gas I 

IV. 

Only look at the poor little P 's 

On the roof. Is there anything sadder? 
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please, 

And they won't be an hour with the ladder 1 
But if any one's hot in their feet, 

And in very great haste to be saved, 
Here's a nice easy bit in the street, 

That M'Adam has lately unpavedl 

V. 

There is some one — I see a dark shape— 

At that window, the hottest of all, — 
My good woman, why don't you escape ? 

Never think of your bonnet and shawl : 
If your dress isn't perfect, what is it 

For once in a way to your hurt ? 
When your husbnnd is paying a visit 

There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt I 

VI, 

Only see how she throws out her chaneyl 

Her basins, and teapots, and all 
The most brittle of her goods — or any, 

But they all break in breaking their fall I 
Such things are not surely the best 

From a two-storey window to throw- 
She might save a good iron-bound chest, 

For there's plenty of people below ? 

VII. 

O dear ! what a beautiful flash ! 

How it shone thro' the window and door ; 
We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, 

When the woman falls thro' with the floor ! 
There ! there ! what a volley of flame. 

And then suddenly all is obscured !— ' 
Well, I'm glad in my heart that I came ;— 

But I hope the poor man is insured ! 



256 



Vr 




The Angel of Death. 



THE VOLUNTEER. 



'The clashing of my armour in my ears 
Sounds like a passing bell ; my buckler puts me 
In mind of bier ; tliis, my broadsword, a pickaxe 
To dig my grave." — The Lovers ProgreiS. 



'TwAS in that memorable year 
France thieaten'd to put off in 
Flat-bottom'd boats, mtending each 
To be a British coffin, 
To make sad widows of our wives, 
And every babe an orphan : — 



II. 

When coats were made of scarlet cloaks, 

And heads were dredged wiih flour, 

I Hsted in the Lawyers' Corps, 

Against the battle hour ; 

A perfect Volunteer — for why? 

I brought my " wiU and power.* 



THE VOLUNTEER. 



IH. 

One dreary day — a day of dreads 

Like Cato's, overcast — 

About the hour of six (the mom 

And I were breaking fast), 

There came a loud and sudden sound^ 

That struck me all aghast ! 

IV. 

A dismal sort of morning roll, 
That was not to be eaten : 
Although it was no skin of mine, 
But parchment that was beaten, 
I felt tattoo'd through all my flesh, 
Like any Otaheitan. 

V* 

My jaws with utter dread enclosed 

The morsel I was munching, 

And terror lock'd them up so tight, 

My very teeth went crunching 

All through my bread and tongue at OOce^ 

Like sandwich made at lunching. 

VL 

My hand, that held the teapot fast, 

Stiffen'd, but yet unsteady, 

Kept pouring, pouring, pouring o'et 

The cup in one long eddy, 

Till both my hose were mark'd with 4m^ 

As they were mark'd already. 

VII. 

I felt my visage turn from red 
To white — from cold to hot ; 
But it was nothing wonderful 
My colour changed, I wot. 
For, like some variable silks, 
I felt that I was shot 

VIII. 

And looking forth with anxious eye 

From my snug upper storey, 

I saw our melancholy corps 

Going to beds all gory ; 

The pioneers seem'd very loth 

To axe their way to glory. 



Hi 



258 THE VOLUNTEER. 

IX; 

flj< captain march'd as mourners marcb* 
The tnsign too seem'd lagging, 
And many more, although they were 
No ensigns, took to flagging — 
Like corpses in the Serpentine, 
Methought they wanted dragging. 



But while I watch'd, the thought of death 

Came like a chilly gust. 

And lo ! I shut the window down, 

With very little lust 

To join so many marching men, 

That soon might be March dust, 

XI. 

Quoth I, " Since Fate ordains it so, 

Our foe the coast must land on ;" — 

I felt so warm beside the fire 

I cared not to abandon ; 

Our hearths and homes are always things 

That patriots make a stand on. 

XII. 

" The fools that fight abroad for honie^* 
Thought I, "may get a wrong one ; 
Let those that have no homes at all 
Go battle for a long one." 
The mirror here contirm'd me this 
Reflection by a strong one : 

XIII. 

For there, where I was wont to shaw^ 
And deck me like Adonis, 
There stood the leader of our foes, 
With vultures for his cronies — 
No Corsican, but Death himself 
The Bony of all Bonies. 

XIV. 

A horrid sight it was, and sad^ 
To see the grisly chap 
Put on my crimson livery, 
And then be^in to clap 
My helmet on — ah me ! it felt 
Like any felon's cap. 



THE VOLUNTEER, 



XV. 



a59 



My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, 

An undertaker's crest ; 

My epaulettes like coffin-plates; 

My belt so heavy press'd, 

Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie 

At once upon my breast. 



XVI. 

My brazen breastplate only lack'd 

A little heap of salt, 

To make me like a corpse full dress'd, 

Preparing for the vault — 

To set up what the poet calls 

My everlasting halt. 

XVII. 

This funeral show inclined me quite 

To ),eace : — and here I am ! 

Whilst better lions go to war, 

Enjoying with the lamb 

A lengthen'd life, that might have bcfla 

A martial epigram. 




26o 




Bride and Bridesmaid. 



A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 



IT has never been my lot to marry, whatever I may have written of 
one Honoria to the contrary. My ?fifair with that lady never 
reached beyond a very emb.irrassing declaration, in return for which 
she breathed into my dull, deaf ear an inaudible answer. It was beyond 
my slender assurance, in those days, to ask for a repetition, whether 
of acceptance or denial. 

One cliance for explanation still remained. I wrote to her mother, 
to bespeak lier sanction to our union, and received, by return of post, 
a scrawl that, for aught I knew, might be in Sanscrit. I question 
whether, even at this time, my intolerable bashfulness would sufifer me 
to press such a matter any farther. 

Mv thoughts of matrimonv are now confined to occasional day-dreams, 
originating in some stray glimpse in the Prayer-B"ok, or the receipt of 
bridecake. It was on some such occurrenct- that I fell once, Bunyan- 
like, into an allegory ot a wedding. 

My fancies took the oiaer of a processitm. With flaunting banners, 
it wound Its Alexandrine way — in the manner of some of Mania's 
painted pageants — to a taper snire in the distance. And first, like a 
band of livery, came the honourable company of Match-makers, all 
mature spinsters and matrons— and as like aunts and mothers as may 
be. The Glovers trod closely on their herls. Anon came, in blue and 
gold, the parish be.. die, Scarabeus Parochialis, vviili the ringers of the 
hand-bells. Then came the Banns — it was during the reign of Lord 
Eldon's Act — three sturdy pioneers, with their three axes, and likely to 



A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 



261 



hew down sterner impediments than lie commonly in the path of mar- 
ringe. On coming nearer, the countenance of the first was right foolish 
and perplexed ; of the second, simpering , and the last, methoiight, 
looked sedate, and as if dashed with a little fear. After the Banns, 
like the Judges toiiowin^; the halberts, came tlie Joiners : no rough 
mechanics, but a portly, full-blown vicar, with his clerk — both rubi- 
cund — a peony paired by a pink. It made me smile to observe the droll 
clerical turn of the clerk's beaver, scrubbed into that fashion by his coat, 
at the nape. The marriage-knot, borne by a ticket-porter, came after the 
divine, and raised associations enough to sadden one, but for a pretty 
Cupid tliat came on laughing and trundling a hoop-ring. 

The next group was a numerous one, Firemen of the Hand-in-Hand, 
with the Union flag — the chief actors were near. With a mixture of 
anxiety and curiosity, I looked out for the impending couple, when — 
how shall I tell it ? — I beheld, not a brace of young lovers, a Romeo 
and Juliet — not a "he-moon here, and a she-sun there" — not bride and 




Joiners. 



bridegroom, but the happy pear^ a solitary Bergamy, carried on a 
velvet cushion by a little foot-page. I could have foresworn my fancy 
for ever for so wretched a conceit, till I remembered that it was in- 
tended, perhaps, to typify, under that figure, the mysterious resolution 
of two into one, a pair nominally, but in substance single, which belongs 
to marriage. To make amends, the high contracting parties approached 
in proper person — a duplication sanctioned by the practice of the oldest 
Masters in their historical pictures. It took a brace of Cupids, with a 
halter, to overcome the "sweet reluctant delay" of the Bride, and 
make her keep pace with the procession. She was absorbed like a 



26a 



A MARRIAGE PROCESSION. 



nun in her veil ; tears, too, she dropped, larg« as sixpences, in hei 
path ; but her attendant Bridesmaid put on such a coquettish look, 
and tripped along so airily, thnt it cured all suspicion of heartache in 
such maiden showers. The Bridegroom, dressed for the Honeymoon, 
was ushered by Hymen, a little hnk-boy ; and the imp used the same 
importunity for his dues. The next was a motley crew. For nuptial 
ode or Carmen, there walked two carters or draymen, with their whips; 
a leash of footmen m livery indicated Domestic Habits; and Domestic 
Comfort was personated by an ambulating advertiser of " Hot Dinners 
every day." 

I forget whether the Bride's Character preceded or followed her ; 
but it was a lottery placard, and blazoned her as One of Ten Thou- 
sand. The parents of both families had a quiet smile on their faces, 
hinting that their enjoyment was of a retrospective cast ; and as for 
the six sisters of the Bride, they would have wept with her, but that 
six young gallants came after tliem. The friends of the family were 
Quakers, and seemed to partake of the happiness of the occasion in a 
very quiet and Quaker-like way. I ought to mention that a band of 
h.irmonious sweet music preceded the Happy Pair. There was none 
came after — the veteran Townsend, with his constables, to keep order, 
making up the rear of the procession. 




A Man in the Honeymoon. 



263 




" Encompass d in an angel's frame.'' 



THE WIDOW. 

One widow at a grave will sob 
A little while, and weep, and sigh % 
If two should meet on such a job, 
They'll have a gossip by and by, 
If three should come together — why 
Three widows are good company ! 
If four should meet by any chance, 
Four is a number very nice 
To have a rubber in a trice — 
But five will up and have a dance ! 

Poor Mrs C (why should I not 

Declare her name ? — her name was Cross) 

Was one of those the "common lot" 

Had left to weep " no common loss j " 

For she had lately buried then 

A man, the " very best of men," 

A lingering truth, discover'd first 

Whenever men " are at the worst«'* 

To take the measure of her woe. 

It was some dozen inches deep — 

I mean in crape — and hung so low. 

It hid the drops she did not weep * 

In fact, what human life appears, 

It was a perfect " veil of tears." 



9^4 THE WIDOW. 



Though ever since she lost " her prop 

And stay," — alas ! he wouldn't stay — 

She never had a tear to mop, 

Except one little angry drop 

From Passion's eye, as Moore would say ; 

Because, when Mister Cross took flight, 

It look'd so very like a spite — 

He died upon a washing-day ! 

Still Widow Cross went twice a week, 
As if "to wet a widow's cheek," 
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy,— 
*Twas nothing but a make-believe, 
She might as well have hoped to grieve 
Enough of brine to float a navy ; 
And yet she often seem'd to raise 
A cambric kerchief to her eye — 
A duster ought to be the phrase, 
Its work was all so very dry. 
The springs were lock'd that ought to flow- 
In England or in widow-woman — 
As those that watch the weather know, 
Such " backward Springs " are not uncommon. 

But why did Widow Cross take pains 
To call upon the " dear remains," — 
Remains that could not tell a jot 
Whether she ever wept or not, 
Or how his relict took her losses ? 
Oh ! my black ink turns red for shame— 
But still the naughty world must learn, 
There was a little German came 
To shed a tear in " Anna's Urn," 
At that next grave to Mr Cross's ! 
For there an angel's virtues slept, 
"Too soon did Heaven assert its claim 1* 
But still her painted face he kept, 
"Encompass'd in an angel's frame." 

He look'd quite sad and quite deprived ; 
His head was nothing but a hat-band ; 
He look'd so lone, and so 7/;/wived, 
That soon the Widow Cross contrived 
To fall in love with even that band ; 
And all at once the brackish juices 
Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices — 
Tear after tear too fast to wipe. 
The' sopp'd, and sopp'd, and sopp'd again— 
No leak in sorrow's private pipe, 
But like a bursting on the main ! 
Whoe'er has watch'd the window-pane— 



THE WIDOW. i6i; 

I mean to say in showery weather- 
Has seen two little drops of rain, 
Like lovers very fond and fain, 
At one another creeping, creeping, 
Till both, at last, embrace toj^ether : 
So fared it with that couple's weeping ! 
The principle was quite as active — 

Tear unto tear 

Kept drawing near, 
Their very blacks became attractive 
To cut a shortish story shorter, 
Conceive them sittin.y; tete-d-tete — 
Two cups,' — hot muffins on a plate, — 
With " Anna's Urn " to hold hot water ! 
The brazen vessel for awhile 
Had lectured in an easy song, 
Like Abernethy — on the bile. 
The scalded herb was getting strong ; 
All seem'd as smooth as smooth could b^ 
To have a cosy cup of tea. 
Alas ! how often human sippers 
With unexpected bitters nitei, 
And buds, the sweetest of the sweet. 
Like sugar, only meet the nippers ! 

The Widow Cross, I should hnve told. 
Had seen three husbands to the mould ; 
She never sought an Indian pyre. 
Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves ; 
But, with a proper sense of fire. 
Put up, instead, with " three removes.* 
Thus, when with any tender words 
Or tears she spoke about her loss, 
The dear departed Mr Cross 
Came in for nothing but his thirds ; 
For, as all widows love too well, 
She liked upon the list to dwell, 
And oft ripp'd up the old disasters. 
She might, indeed, have been supposed 
A great ship owner ; for she prosed 
Eternally of her Three Masters 1 

Thus, foolish woman, while she nursed 
Her mild souchong, she talk'd and reckon'd 
What had been left her by her first, 
And by her last, and by her second. 
Alas ! not all her annual rents 
Could then entice the little German,— 
Not Mr Cross's Thri e per Cents, 
Or Consols, ever m.ike him her man. 
He liked her cash, he liked her houses, 
But not that dismal bit of lajid 



Stf A MAD DOG. 



She always settled on her spouses. 

So taking up his hat and band, 
Said he, " You'll think my conduct odd— 
But here my hv)pes no more may Imger; 
I thought you had a wedding-finger, 
But oh ! — it is a curtain-rod 1 " 



A MAD DOG 

IS none of my bugbears. Of the bite of dogs, large ones especially, 
I have a reasonable dread; but as to any p riicipation in the 
canine frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. The notion savours of the 
same fancilul superstition that invested the subjects of Dr Jenner 
with a pair of horns. Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine 
matter ; and I shall believe what I have heard of tlie canine virus, 
when I see a rabid gentleman, or gentlewom;m, with flap-ears, dew- 
claws, and a brush-tail ! 

I lend no credit to the imputed effects of a mad dog's saliva. We 
hear of none such amongst the West Indian Negroes, and yet their 
condition is always slavery. 

I put no faith in the vulgar stories of hum.n beings betaking them- 
selves, through a dog bite, to dog habits ; and conhiLier the smother- 
ings and drownings that have originated in that fancy as cruel as the 
murders for witchcraft. Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all the 
disciples of Loyola — Jesuits Bark — or plunge unto death all the con- 
valescents who may take to bark and wine 1 

As for ihe hydrophobia, or loathing of wnter, I have it mildly myself. 
My head turns invariably at thin, washy potations. With a dog, 
indeed, the case is diftcront : he is a water-drinker, and when he takes 
to grape-juice, or the stronger cordials, may be dangerous. But I have 
never seen one with a bottle — except at his tail. 

There are other dogs who are born to haunt the liquid element, to 
dive and swim, and for such to shun the lake or the pond would look 
suspicious. A Newfoundlander, standing up from a shower at a door- 
way, or a Spaniel with a Parapluie, might be innocently destroyed. 
But when does such a cur occur .-" 

There are persons, however, who lecture on Hydrophobia very 
dogmatically. It is one of their maggots, that if a puppy be not 
wormed, he is apt to go rabid. As if, forsooth, it made so much 
difference, his merely speaking or not with wliat Lord Duberly calls 
his " vermicular tongue !" Verily, as Izaak W.dton would say, these 
gudgeons take the worm very kindly ! 

Next to a neglect of calling in Dr Gardner, want of water is prone to 
drive a dog mad. A reasonable saying — but the rest is not so plausible, 
viz , that if you keep a dog till he is very dry, he will refuse to drink. 
It is a gross libel on the human-like instinct of the animal, to suppose 
him to act so clean contrary to human-kind. A crew ot sailors, thir^.« 



A MAD DOG. 067 

ing at sea, will suck their pumps or the canvas — anything that will 
afford a drop of moisture ; whereas a parching dog, instead of cooHng 
his tongue at the next gutter, or lickmg his own kt-nnel for imaginary 
relief, runs senselessly up and down to overheat himself, and resenis 
the offer of a bucket like a mortal affront. Away he scuds, straight- 
forward like a marmot, except when he dodges a pump. A glimmer- 
ing instinct guides him to his old haunts. He bites his ex-master, 
grips his trainer, takes a snap with a friend or two where he used 
to visit — and then, biting right and left at the public, at last dies — a 
pitchfork in his eye, fifty slugs in his ribs, and a spade at the small 
of his back. 

The career of the animal is but a type of his victim's — suppose some 
Bank Clerk. He was not bitten, but only splashed on the hand by 
the mad foam or dog-spray ; a recent flea-bite gives entrance to the 




Hydrophobia. 



virus, and in less than three years it gets possession. Then the 
tragedy begins. The unhappy gentleman first e\inces uneasiness at 
being called on for his New River rates. He answers the Collector 
snappishly, and when summoned to pay for his supply of water, tells 
the Commissioners doggedly that they may cut it off. From that 
time he gets worse. He refuses slops — turns up a pug nose at pump- 
water — and at last, on a washing-day, after flying at the laundress, 
rushes out, ripe for huntin:^, to the street. A twilight remembrance 
leads him to the house of his intended. He fastens on her hand — 
next worries his mother — takes a bite apiece out of his brothers and 
sisters — runs a muck, " giving tongue," all through the suburbs — and 
finally is smothered by a pair of bed-beaters in Moorfields. 



|68 A MAD DOG. 

According to popular theory, the mischief ends not here. The dog's 
master — the trainer — the friends, human and canine — the Hank Clerks — 
the laundresses — sweetheart— mother and sisters — thet"o bed beaters 
— all inherit the rabies, and run about to bite others. It is a wonder, 
the madness increasing by this ratio, that examples are not running 
in packs at every turn : — my experience, notwithstanding, records but 
one instance. 

It was mv Aunt's brute. His temper latterly had altered for the 
worse, and in a sullen or insr.ne fit he made a snap nt the cook's 
radish-like fingers. The act demanded an inquest de lunatico in- 
quirendo — he was lugged neck and crop to a full bucket ; but you 
may bring a horse to the water, says the proverb, yet not make him 
drink, and the cur asserted the same independence. To make sure, 
Bettv cast the whole gallon over him, a favour that he received with a 
mood that would have been natural in any mortal. His growl was 
conclusive. The cook alarmed hrst the family, and then the neigh- 
bourhood, which poured all its males capable of bearing .irms into the 
passage. There were sticks, staves, swords, and a gun, a prong or 
two, moreover, glistened here and there. The kitchen door was occu- 
pied by the first rank of the column, their weapons all bristling in 
advance ; and right opposite — at the further side of the kitchen, and 
holding all the army at bay — stood Hydrophobia " in its most dreadful 
form ! " 

Conceive, Mulready ! under this horrible figure of speech, a round, 
goggle-eyed pu;4-face, supported by two stumpy bandy-legs — the fore- 
limbs of a long, pampered, sausage-like body, that rested on a similar 
pair of crotchets at the other end ! Not without short wheezy pant- 
ings, he began to waddle towards the guarded entry ; but before he 
had accomplished a quarter of the distance, there resounded the report 
of a musket. The poor Turnspit gave a yell — the little brown bloated 
body tumbled over, pierced by a dozen slugs, but not mortally ; for 
before the piece could be reloaded, he contrived to lap up a little pool 
•—from Betty's bucket— that had settled beside the hearth. 



269 




Drill and BroadcasL 



JOHN TROT. 



A BALLAD. 



John Trot he was as tall a lad 
As York did ever rear — 

As his dear Granny used to say, 
He'd make a grenadier. 



II. 



A Serjeant soon came down to York 
With ribbokis and a frill ; 

My lads, said he, let broadcast be, 
And come away to drill. 



III. 



But when he wanted John to 'list, 

In war he saw no fun, 
Where what is call'd a raw recruit 

Gets often overdone. 



270 JOHN TROT. 



IV. 



Let others cany guns, said he. 
And go to war's alarms, 

But I have got a shoulder-knot 
Imposed upon my arms. 



V. 



For John he had a footman's place 

To wait on Lady Wye — 
She was a dumpy woman, tho* 

Her family was high. 

VI. 

Now when two years had past awrayf 

Her Lord took very ill, 
And left her to her widowhood, 

Of course more dumpy stilL 

VII. 

Said John, I am a proper man, 

And very tall to see ; 
Who knows, but now her Lord is loWf 

She may look up to me ? 

VIII. 

A cunning woman told me onc^ 
Such fortune would turn up ; 

She was a kind of sorceress, 
But studied in a cup ! 

IX. 

So he walk'd up to Lady Wye, 
And took her quite amazed,— 

She thought, tho' Jolin was tall enough 
He wanted to be raised. 

X. 

But John — for why ? she was a dame 

Of such a dwarfish sort — 
Had only come to bid her make 
Her mourning very short. 

XI. 

Said he, Your Lord is dead and cold, 

You only cry in vain ; 
Not all the Cries of London now 

Could call him back again 1 



JOHN TROT. d7« 



XII. 



Youll soon have many a noble beai^ 
To dry your noble tears — 

But just consider this, that I 
Have follow'd you for years. 



XIII. 



And tho' you are above me far, 
What matters high degree, 

When you are only four foot nine, 
And I am six foot three ? 



XIV. 



For tho' you are of lofty race, 

And I'm a low-born elf; 
Yet none among your friends could say^ 

You match'd beneath yourself. 



XV. 



Said she, Such insolence as this 
Can be no common case ; 

Tho' you are in my service, sir, 
Your love is out of place. 



XVI. 



O Lady Wye ! O Lady Wye I 

Consider what you do ; 
How can you be so short with me, 

I am not so with you 1 

XVII. 

Then ringing for her serving-men, 

They show'd him to the door : 
Said they, You turn out better now. 

Why didn't you before ? 

XVIII. 

They stripp'd his coat, and gave him kicks 

For all his wages due ; 
And off, instead of green and gold, 

He went in black and blue. 

XIX. 

No family would take him in, 

Because of this discharge ; 
So he made up his mind to serve 

The country all at large. 



27a 



AN Ab^hNTEE. 



XX. 

Huzza ! the serjeant cried, and put 

The money in his hand, 
And with a shilling cut him off 

From his paternal land. 

XXI. 

For when his regiment went to fight 

At Saragossa town, 
A Frenchman thought he look'd too tall 

And so he cut him down 1 




High-born and Low-born. 



AN ABSENTEE. 

IF ever a man wanted a flapper— no butcher's mimosa, or catch-fly, 
but one of those officers in use at the court of Laputa — my friend 

W should have such a remembrancer at his elbow. I question 

whether even the appliance of a blndder full of peas or pebbles would 
arouse him from some of his abstractions ; fits of mental insensibility, 
parallel with those bodily trances in which persons have sometimes 
been coffined. Not that he is entangled in abstruse problems, like the 
nobility of the Flying Island ! He does not dive, like Sir Isaac Newton, 
into a reverie, and turn up again with a Tlieory of Gravitntiun. His 
tlioughts nre not deeply engaged elsewhere — they are nowhere. His 
head revolves itself, top-like, into a profound slumber — a blank doze 



AN ABSENTEE, 



373 



without a dream. He is not carried away by incoherent rambling 
fancies out of himself, — he is not drunk, merely, with the Waters of 
ObHvion, but drowned in them, body and soul ! 

There is a story, somewhere, of one of these absent persons, who 
stooped down, when tickled about the calf by a bluebottle, and 
scr.itched his neighbour's leg : an act of tolerable forgetfulness, but 

denoting a state far short of W 's absorptions. He would never 

have felt the fly. 

'i'o make W 's condition more whimsical, he lives in a small 

bachelor's house, with no other attendant tlian an old housekeeper — 
one Mistress Bundy, of faculty as infirm and intermitting as his own. 
It will he readily believed that her absent fits do not originate, any 
more than her master's, in abstruse mathematical speculations — a 




"Lawk ! I've forgot the Brandy I" 



proof with me that such moods result, not from abstractions of mind, 
but stagnation. How so ill-sorted a couple contrive to get through 
the conmionplace affairs of life, I am not prepared to say: but it is 
comical indeed to see him ring up Mistress Bundy to receive orders, 
which he generally forgets to deliver, — or, if delivered, this old 
Btwildered Maid lets slip out of her remembrance with the same 
ficility. Numberless occurrences of this kmd — in many instances 
more extravagant — are recorded by his friends ; but an evening that 
I spent with hnn recently will furnish an abundance of examples. 

In spite of going by his own invitation, I found W within. He 

was too apt, on such occasions, to be denied to his visitors ; but what 
in others would be an unpardonable affront, was overlooked in a man 
who was not always at home to himself The door was opened by the 
housekeeper, whose absence, as usual, would not allow her to decide 



ij^ AN ABSENTEE. 

upon that of her master. Her shrill quavering voice went echohtg 

up-stairs with its old query, "Mr W ! nre >ou within ?"^then a 

pause, literally for him to collect himself. Anon came his answer, and 
I was ushered up-stairs, Mrs Bundy contriving, as usual, to forget my 
nnme at the first landin;^-place. 1 had therefore to introduce myself 

formally to W , whose old friends came to him always as if with 

new faces. As for what followed, it was one of the old fitful colloquies 
— a game at conversation, sometimes with a partner, sometimes with 
a dummy; the old ^voman's memory in the meantime growing torpid 
on a kitchen-chair. Hour after hour pissed away : no tea-spoon jingled 
or tea-cup rattled ; no murmuring kettle or hissmg urn found its way 
upward from one Haunt of Forgetfuiness to the other. In short, as 
might have been expected with an Absentee, the tea was absent. 

It happens tiiat the meal m question is not one of my essentials ; I 
therefore never hinted at the In Tea Speravi of my visit ; but at the 
turn of eleven o'clock, my host r.ing tor the ai)paratus, The Chinese 
ware was brought up, but the herb was deficient. Mrs Bundy went 
forth, by command, for a supply ; but it was past grocer-time, and we 
arr.mged to make amends by an early supper, which came, however, 
as proportionably late as the tea. By dint of those freed(»ms which 
you must use with an entertainer who is absent at his own table, I 

contrived to sup sparely ; and W 's memory, blossoming like certain 

flowers to the night, reminded him that I was accustomed to go to bed 
on a tumbler of Geneva and water. He kept but one bottle ot each of 
the three kinds, Rum, Brandy, and Hollands, in the house ; and when 
exhausted, they were replenished at the tavern a few doors off. Luckily, 
for it was far be\ ond the midnight hour, when, according to our vapid 
magistracy, all spirits are evil, the three vessels were full, and merely 
wanted bringing up-stairs. The ketile was singing on the hob ; the 
tumblers, with spoons in them, stood miraculously ready on the board ; 
and Mrs Bundy was really on her way fr^m below with the one thing 
needful. Never were fair hopes so unfairly blighted ! I could hear 
her step labouring on the stairs to the very last step, when her memory 
serving her just .is treacherously as her forgetfuiness, or rather both 
betraying her together, there befell the accident which I have endea- 
voured to record by the sketch over-leaf. 

I never ate or drank with the Barmecide again 1 



275 




Unconscious Imitation. 



ODE TO THE CAMELEOFARD. 



Welcome to Freedom's birthplace — and a den ! 

Great Anti-climax, hail ! 
So very lofty in thy front — but then, 

So dwindling at the tail ! — 
In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs ! 
Has one pair gallop'd whilst the other trotted, 
Along with other brethren, leopard-spotted, 
O'er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs ? 
Sure thou wert caught in some hard uphill chase, 
Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check ! 

And yet thou seem'st prepared in any case, 

Tho' tluy had lost the race, 
To win it— by a neck ! 

That lengthy neck — how like a crane's it looks 1 

Art thou the overseer of all the brutes ? 

Or dost thou browse on tiptop leaves or fruits — 

Or go a bird-nesting amon;^st the rooks ? 

Ho A kindly nature caters for all wants ; 

Thils giving unto thee a neck that stretches, 

And high food fetches — 
To some a lung nose, like the elephant's ! 



276 ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. 

Oh ! hadst thou any organ to thy bellows, 
To turn thy breath to speech in human style, 

What secrets thou might'st tell us, 
Where now our scientific guesses fail ; 

For instance of the Nile, 
Whether those Seven Mouths have any tail ; 

Mayhap thy luck too, 
From that high head, as from a lofty hill, 
Has let thee see the marvellous Timbuctoo — 
Or drmk of Niger at its infant rill. 
What were the travels of our Major Denham, 

Or Clapperton, to thine 

In that same line, 
If thou couldst only squat thee down and pen 'em! 




African Wreckers. 



Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlool{^d| 
With eyes held ever in such vantage stations ! 
Hast seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cook'd, 
And then made free of negro corporations? 
Poor wretches saved from castaway three-deckers— 

By sooty wreckers — 
From hungry waves to have a loss still drearier, 
To far e.\ceed the utmost aim of Park — 
And find tht.mselves, alas ! bi-yond the mark, 
In the iusiihs of Ainca's interior ! 



ODE TO THE CaMELEOPARD. 

Live on, Giraffe ! genteelest of raff kind ! — 
Admired by noble, and by royal tongues ! 

May no pernicious wind, 
Or English fog, blight thy exotic lungs ! 
Live on in happy peace, altho' a rarity, 
Nor envy thy poor cousin's more outrageous 

Parisian popularity, 
Wliose very leopard-rash is grown contagious, 
And worn on gloves and ribbons all about — 

Alas ! they'll wear him out ! 
So thou shalt take thy sweet diurnal feeds 
When he is stuff'd with undigested straw, 
Sad food that never visited his jaw ! 
And staring round him with a brace of beads t 



277 




Wluie Bait. 



THE PLEA 



OF 



THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

[Originally Published in 1827.] 

TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. 

MY Dear Friend, — I thank my literary fortune that I am not re- 
duced, like many better wits, to barter dedications, for the hope 
or promise of patronaj^e, with some nominally great man ; but that 
where true aflertion points, and honest respect, 1 am free to gratify 
my head and heart by a sincere inscription. An intimacy and dear- 
ness, \N orthy of a much earlier date than our acquaintance can refer 
to, din ct me at once 10 your name ; and with this acknowledgment of 
your ever kind feeling towards me, I desire to record a respect and 
admiration for you as a writer, whith no one acquainted with our lite- 
rature, save Elia himself, will think disproportion. ite or misplaced. If 
I had not these better reasons to govern me, I should be guided to the 
saine selection by your intense yet critical relish for the works of our 
gre.it Dr.miatist, and for that favourite play in particular which has fur- 
nished the subject of my verses. 

It is my design, in the following Poem, to celebrate, by an allegory, 
that immortality which Shakespeare has conferred on the Fairy 
mythology by his " Midsummer Night's Dream." But lor him, those 
pretty children of our childhood would leave barely their names to our 
maturer years ; they belong, as the mites upon the plum, to the bloom 
of fancy, a thing generally too frail and beautiful to withstand the rude 
handiin;,' of time : but the Poet has made this most perishable part of 
the mind's creation equal to the most enduring ; he has so intert" ined 
the Elfins with human sympathies, and linked them by so many delight- 
ful associations with the productions of nature, that they are as real to 
the mind's eye, as their green magical circles to the outer sense. 

It would have been a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though 
they were but as the butterllies that hover about tlie leaves and blossoms 
of the visible world. — I am, my dear Friend, yours most truly, 

T. Hood. 



279 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES, 



'TWAS in that mellow season of the year 

When th» hot Sun singes the yellow leaves 

Till they be gold, — and with a broader sphere 

The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves ; 

When more abundantly the spider weaves, 

And the cold wmd breathes from a chiUier clime ; 

That forth 1 fared, on one of those still eves, 

Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time. 

To think how the bright months had spent their prime : 

II. 

So that, wherever I address'd my way, 

I seem'd to track the melancholy feet 

Of him that is the Father of Decay, 

And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet ;— 

Wherefore regretfully I made retreat 

To some unwasted regions of my brain, 

Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat. 

And bade that bounteous season bloom again, 

And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain. 

III. 

It was a shady and sequester'd scene, 
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, 
Planted with his own laurels evergreen, 
And roses that for endless summer blow ; 
And there were founting springs to overflow 
Their mnrl;le basins, — and cool green arcades 
Of tall u'erarching sycamores, to throw 
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,-— 
With timid coneys cropping the green blades. 

IV. 

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish, 

Argent and gold ; and some of Tyrian skin. 
Some crimson-barr'd ; — and ever at a wish 
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin 
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, 
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom ; 
Whilst otiiers with fresh hues row'd forth to win 
My changeable regard, — for so we docm 
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom. 



fSo THE PLEA OF THE 



V. 

And there were many birds of many dyes, 
From tree to tree still faring to and fro, 
And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes, 
And g^orgeous pheasants with their golden glow. 
Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow, 
Besides some vocalists, without a name, 
That oft on fairy errands come and go, 
With accents magical ; — and all were tame. 
And peckled at my hand where'er I came. 

VI. 

And for my sylvan company, in lieu 
Of Pampinea with her lively peers, 
Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, 
All in their liveries quamt, with elfin gears, 
For she was gracious to my childish years, 
And made me free of her enchanted round ; 
Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, 
And plants her court upon a verdant mound, 
Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound 

VII. 

" Ah me ! " she cries, " was ever moonlight seen 
So clear and tender for our midnight trips ? 
Go some one i'orth, and with a triimn convene 
My lieges all !" — Away the goblin skips 
A pace or two apart, and deftly strips 
The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, 
Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips, 
Making it utter forth a shrill small shriek, 
Like a fray'd bird in the grey owlet's beak. 

VIII. 

And lo ! upon my fix'd delighted ken 
Appeared the loyal Fays.— Some by degrees 
Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then, 
And some from bell-shaped blossoms like the bees, 
Some from the dewy meads and rushy leas 
Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass ; 
Some from the rivers, others from tall trees 
Dropp'd, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass, 
Spirits and elfins small, of every class. 

IX. 

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, ^ 
Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain \ 
And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic. 
Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain, 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. . 381 

Fresh dripping from a cloud — some bloomy rnin, 
Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car, 
And still bedew'd it with a various siain : 
Lastly came Ariel, shooting frcm a star, 
Who bears all fairy embassies afar. 

X. 

But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled, 

Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen 

Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled, 

Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been 

Sometimes obnoxious), kept him from his queen. 

And made her now peruse the starry skies 

Prophetical with such an absent mien ; 

Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes, 

And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs— 

XI. 

Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon 
Their hushing dances languish'd to a stand. 
Like midnight leaves, when, as the Zephyrs swoon. 
All on their drooping stems they sink unfann'd, — 
So into silence drnop'd the fairy band, 
To see their empress dear so pale and still, 
Crowding her softly round on either hand, 
As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill. 
To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ilL 

XII. 

"Alas !" quoth she, " ye know our fairy lives 
Are leased upon the fickle faith of m^-n ; 
Not measured out against fate's mortal knive% 
Like human gossamers, we perish when 
We fade, and are forgot in worldly ken, — 
Though poesy has thus prolong'd our date, 
Thanks be to the sweet Bard's auspicious pen 
That rescued us so long ! — howbeit of late 
I feel some dark misgivings of our fate. 

XIII. 

** And this dull day my melancholy sleep 

Hath been so throng'd with images of woe, , 

That even now I cannot choose but weep 

To think this was some sad prophetic show 

Of future horror to befall us so, — 

Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress, — 

Yea, our poor empire's fall and overthrow f— 

For this was my long vision's dreadful stress. 

And when I waked my trouble was not less. 



THE FLEA OF THE 



XIV. 



"Whenever to the clouds I tried to seeTc, 
Such leaden weight dr.ii^g'd these Icarian wings. 
My f.iithless wand was wavering and weak, 
And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings — 
The birds refused to sing for me — all things 
Disown'd their old allegi.ince to our spells ; 
The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings ; 
And, when I pass'd, the valley-lily's bells 
Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells. 

XV. 

"And ever on the faint and flagging air 

A doleful spirit with a dreary note 

Cried in my fearful ear, ' Prepare ! prepare !' 

Which soon I knew came from a raven's throati 

Perch'd on a cypress bough not far remote, — 

A cursed bird, loo crafty to be shot. 

That alway cometh with his soot-black coat 

To make hearts dreary : — for he is a blot 

Upon the book of life, as well ye wot 1 — 

XVI. 

*' Wherefore, some while I bribed him to be mute, 

With bitter acorns stuffing his foul m.nv. 

Which barely I appeased, when some fresh bruit 

Startled me all ;iheap ! — and soon I saw 

The horridest shape that ever raised my awe, — 

A monstrous giant, very hu:4e and t ill. 

Such as in elder times, devoid of law, 

With wicked might grieved the primeval ball, 

And this was sure the deadliest of them all I 

xvn. 

" Gaunt was he as a wolf of Lnnguedoc, 
With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown ; 
So from his barren poll one hoary lock 
Over his wrinkled front fell far adown, 
Well-nigh to where his frosty brows did frown 
Like jagged icicles at cottage eaves ; 
And for his coronal he wore some brown 
And bristled ears gather'd from Ceres' sheaves. 
Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves. 

XVIII. 

" And lo ! upon a mast rear'd far aloft. 
He bore a very bright and crescent blade, 
The which he waved so dreadfully, and oft, 
In meditative spite, that, sore dismay'd, 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

I crept into an acorn-cup for shade ; 
Me:invvhile the horrid effigy went by : 
I trow his look was dreadful, for it made 
The tremblini; birds betake them to the sky, 
For every leaf was lilted by his sigh. 

XIX. 

"And ever as he sigh'd, his fog^y breath 
Blurr'd out the landscape like a flight of smoke : 
Thence knew I this was either dreary Death 
Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. 
Ah wretched me !" — Here, even as she spoke, 
The melancholy Shape came gliding in, 
And lean'd his back ngainst an antique oak, 
Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin, 
They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin. 

XX. 

Then what a fear seized all the little rout ! 
Look how a flock of panick'd sheep will stare — 
And huddle close — and start— and wheel about, 
Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,— 
So did that sudden Api>arition scare 
All close aheap those small affrighted things ; 
Nor sought they now the safety of tiie riir, 
As if some leaden spell withheld their wings ; 
But who can fly that ancientest of Kings ? 

XXI. 

Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear 
And previous sigh, beginneih to entreat, 
Bidding him spare, for love, lier lieges dear : 
*' Alas ! " quoth she, " is there no nodding wheat 
Ripe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet, — 
Or wither'd leaves to ravish from the tree, — 
Or crumbling battlements fur ihy defeat ? 
Think but what vaunting monuments there be 
Builded in spite and mockery of thee. 

XXII. 

" Oh, fret away the faliric walls of Fame, 
And grind down m irble Carsars in the dust : 
Make tombs inscriptionless — raze each hic;h mnie. 
And waste old armours of renown with rust : 
Do all of this, and thy revenge is just : 
Make such decays the trophies of thy prime. 
And check Ambition's overweening lust, 
That dares exterminating war with Tniie,— 
But we are guiltless of that lofty crime. 



THE PLEA OF THE 



XXIII. 



** FVail feeble sprites ! — the children of a dream I i 
Leased on the sufferance of fickle men, J 

Like motes dependent on the sunny beam, 
Living but in the sun's indulgent ken, 
And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then }-" 
So do we flutter in the i^lance of youth 
And fervid fancy, — and so perish when 
The eye of faith grows aged ; — m sad truth, 
Feeling thy sway, O Time ! though not thy tooth i 

XXIV. 

** Where be those old divinities forlorn, 
That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream ? 
Alas ! their memories are dimm'd and torn, 
Like the remainder tatters of a dream : 
•So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem ;— 
For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves, 
That holds the wastes of every human scheme. 
Oh, spare us then, — and these our pretty elves, 
We soon, alas ! shall perish of ourselves 1" 

XXV. 

Now as she ende(f, with a sigh, to name 
Those old Olympians, scatter'd by the whirl 
Of Fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame^ 
Methought a scornful and malignant curl 
Show'd on the lips of that majicious churl, 
To tlunk what noble havocks he had made; 
So that I fear'd he all at once wonld hurl 
The harmless fairies into endless shade, — 
Howbeithe stopp'd awhile to whet his blade, 

XXVI. 

Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail 
Rise up in concert from their mingled dread: 
Pity it was to see them, all so pale, 
. Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed ; — 
But Puck was seated on a spider's thread, 
That hung between two branches of a briar, 
And 'gan to swint; and gambol heels o'er head, 
Like any Southvv ark tumbler on a wire, 
For him no present grief could long inspire. 

XXVII. • 

Meanwhile the Queen, with many piteous drops, 
Falling like tiny sparks full fast and tree, 
Brdews a patliway from her throne ; — and stops 
Before the foot of her arch enemy, 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

And with her little arms enfolds his knee, 
That shows more gristly from that fair embrace ; 
But she will ne'er depart. "Alas !" quoth she, 
•' My painful finders I will here enlace 
Till I have gain'd your pity for our race. 

XXVIII. 

**What have we ever done to earn this grud;^e, 
And hate — (if not too humble for thy h .ting ?)— 
Look o'er our labours and our lives, and judge 
If there be any ills of our creating ; 
for we are very kindly creatures, dating 
With nature's charities still sweet and bland : — 
Oh, think this murder worthy of debating ! " 
Herewith she makes a signal with her hand. 
To beckon some one from the Fairy band. 

XXIX. 

Anon I saw one of those elfin things, 

Clad all in while like any chorister, 

Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings, 

That made soft music at each little stir. 

But something louder than a bee's demur. 

Before he lights upon a bunch of broom, 

And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer, — • 

And oh ! his voice was sweet, touch'd with the gloom. 

Of that sad theme that argued of his doom 1 

XXX. 

Quoth he, "We make all melodies our care, 
That no false discords may offend the Sun, 
Music's great master — tuning everywhere 
Ail pastoral sounds and melodies, each one 
Duly to place and season, so that none 
May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn 
The shrill sweet lark ; and when the day is done, 
Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn. 
That singeth with her breast against a thorn. 

XXXI. 

* We gather in loud choirs the twittering race, 
That make a chorus with their single note ; 
And tend on new-fledged birds in every place, 
That duly they may get their tunes by rote ; 
And oft, like ech.oes, answering remote, 
We hide in thickets from the feather'd throng, 
And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat, 
Sini^ing in shrill responses all day long, 
Whilst the glad truant listens to our song. 



THE PLEA OF THE 



XXXII. 



"Wherefore, great King of Years, ns thou dost love 
The raining music from a morning cloud, 
When vanish'd larks are carolling above, 
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud : — 
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud 
The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell, 
Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd, 
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell 
Whene'er thou listenest to Philomel" 

XXXIII. 

Then Saturn thus : — " Sweet is the merry larl^ 
That carols in man's ear so clear and strong ; 
And youth must love to listen in the dark 
That tuneful elegy of Tereus' wrong ; 
But I have heard that ancient strain too long, 
For sweet is sweet but when a little strange, 
And I grow weary for some newer song ; 
For wherefore had I wings, unless to range 
Through all things mutable from change to change? 

XXXIV. 

** But wouldst thou hear the melodies of Time, 
Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll 
Over hush'd cities, and the midnight chime 
Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells tcU 
Like a last knell over the dead world's soul, 
Saying, Time shall be final of all things, 
Whose late, last voice must elegise the whole,— 
Oh, then I clap aloft my brave broad wings, 
And make the wide air tremble while it rings I* 

XXXV. 

Then next a fair Eve-Fay mr.de meek address, 
Saying, " We be the handmaids of the .Spring, 
In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress, 
Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing. 
We tend upon buds' birth and blossoming, 
And count the leafy tributes that they owe — 
As so much to the earth — so much to fling 
In showers to the brook — so much to go 
In whirlwinds to the clouds that inade them grow. 

XXXVI. 

"The pastoral cowslips are our little pets. 
And daisy stars, whose firmament is green ; 
Pansies, and those veil'd nuns, meek violets, 
Sighmg to that warm worlu i'rom which they screeii ; 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. aSj 

And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen; 
And lonely harebells, quaking on the hedth ; 
And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen, 
Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breath; 
Kiss'd by sad Zepliyr, guilty of his death. 

XXXVII. 

"The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon, 
And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright 
A cool libation hoarded for the noon 
Is kept — and she that purifies the light, 
The virgin lily, faithful to her white, 
Whereon Eve wept m Eden for her shame ; 
And the most dainty rose, Aurora's sprite, 
Our every godchild, by whatever name — 
Spare us our lives, ior we did nurse the same!** 

XXXVIII. 

Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck 
His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground. 
Saying, " Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck 
With i^raudy buds, or like a wooer crown'd 
With flowery chaplets, save when they are found 
Wither'd? — Whenever have I pluck'd a rose, 
Except to scatter its vain leaves around ? 
For so all gloss of beauty I oppose. 
And bring decay on every flower that blows. 

XXXIX. 

'* Or when am I so wroth as when I view 

The wanton pride of Summer ; — how she decks 

The birthday world with blossoms ever new. 

As if Time had not lived, and heap'd great wrecks 

Of years on years? — Oh, then I bravely vex 

And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight. 

And slay them with the wreaths about their neckS| 

Like foolish heifers in the holy rite, 

And raise great trophies to my ancient might,* 

XL. 

Then saith another, "We are kindly things, 

And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — 

Witness these hearts embroider'd on our wings, 

To show our constant patronage of love : — I, 

We sit, at even, in sweet bowers above 

Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air. 

To mingle with their sighs ; and still remove 

The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear 

Their privacy, and haunt some other where. 



88S THE PLEA OF THE 

XLI. 

"And we are near the mother when she sit« 

Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; 
And we are in the fairy scene that Hits 
Across its tender brain : sweet dreams we shed J 
And whilst the tender little soul is fled 
Away to sport with our young elves, tlie while 
We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, 
And tickle the soft lips until they smile. 
So that their careful parents they beguile, 

XLII. 

** Oh, then, if ever thou hast breathed a vcw 
At Love's dear portal, or at pale mocnrise 
Cnish'd the dear curl on a regardful brow 
That did not frown thee from thy honey prize— 
If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs. 
And woo'd thee from thy careful thoughts within 
To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes, 
Or glad thy fin:^ers on his smooth soft skin, 
For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win 1* 

XLIII. 

Then Saturn fiercely thus : — "What joy have I 
In tender babes, that have devour'd mine own, 
Whenever to the light I heard them cry, 
Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone? 
Whereon, till now, is my great hun;4er shown, 
In monstrous dints of my enormous tooth ; 
And, — but the peopled world is too full grown 
For hunger's edge, — I would consume all youtk 
At one great meal, without delay or ruth I 

XLIV. 

'*For I am well-nigh crazed and wild to hear 
How boastful fithers taunt me with their breed, 
Sayin<^^, We shall not die nor disappear. 
But in these other selves, ourselves succeed, 
Even as ripe flowers pass into their seed 
Only to be renew'd from prime to prime ; 
All of which boa:- tings I am forced to read, 
]^ sides a thousand challenges to Time 
Which bragging lovers have compiled in rhyme; 

XLV. 

"Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nightlp 
There will I steal, and'with my hurried hand 
Startle them suddenly from their delights 
Before the next encounter hath bc^n plann'd. 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. gQ| 

Ravishing hours in little minutes spann'd ; 
But when they say fr.rewell, and grieve apart, 
Then like a leaden statue I will stand : 
Me:in\vhile their many tears encrust my dart, 
And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart." 

XLVI. 

Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green, 

Sti.pt vanward from his mates, that idly stood 

Each at his proper ease, as they had been i 

Nursed in the liberty of old Sherwood, 

And More the livery of Robin Hood, 

Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup, — 

So came this chief right frankly, and made good 

His haunch a;_:ainst his axe, and thus spoke up, 

Doffing his cap, w hich was an acorn's cup ; — 

XLVI I. 

*' We be small foresters and gay, who tend 
On trees, and all their furniture of green, 
Training the young boughs airily to bend, 
And show blue snatches of the sky between ; — 
Or knit more close intricacies, to screen 
Birds' crafty dwt Uings as may hide them best, 
But most the timid blackbird's — she, that seen. 
Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest, 
Lest man should cage the darlings of her breasL 

XLVIII. 

" We bend each tree in proper attitude, 
And founting willows train in silvery falls ; 
We frame all shady roofs and arches rude. 
And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls, 
Or deep rectsses where the Echo calls ; — 
We shape all plumy trees against the sky, 
And carve tali elms' Corinthian capitals, — 
\\ ht n sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply, 
Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh. 

XLIX. 

'* Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell. 

And sometimes carve quaint ictttrs on trees' rind. 

That haply some lone musing v/j.^bt may spell 

Dainty Ammta, — gentle Rosaimd, — 

Or chastest Laura, — sweetly call'd to mind 

In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down ; — 

And sometimes we enrich gray stems with twined 

And vagrant ivy, or rich nio- s, whose brown 

Burns into gold as the warm sun goes (.lown. 



THE PLEA OF THE 



** And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheeiy 
We bear the seedling berries, for increase, 
To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year, 
Careful that mistletoe may never cease ; — 
Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace 
Of sombre forests, or to see light break 
Through sylvan cloisters, and in spi ing release 
Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake, 
Spare us our lives for the Green Dryad's sake." 

LI. 

Then Saturn, with a frown : — " Go forth, and fell 

Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by 

Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell 

To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky 

Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy 

The next green generation of the tree ; 

But hence with the dead leaves, whene'er they fly,-— 

Which in the bleak air 1 would rather see, 

Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be. 

LII. 

" For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets, 

Ivy except, that on the aged wall 

Preys with its worm-like roots, and daily frets 

The crumbled tower it seems to league vvithal, 

King-like, worn down by its own coronal : — 

Neither in forest haunts love 1 to won 

Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall, 

And leaves the brown, bleak limbs with few leaves oi^ 

Or bare — like Nature in her skeleton. 

LIII. 

" For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs, 
Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs ; 
And there in rustling nuptials we espouse, 
Smit by the sadness in each other's eyes ; — 
But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies. 
And must be courted with the gauds of spring ; 
Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries, 
What shall we always do, but love and sing? — 
And Time is reckon'd a discarded thing." 

LIV. 

Here in my dream it made me fret to see 
How Puck, the Antic, all this dreary while 
Had blithely jested wiih calamity, 
With mistimed mirth mocking the doleful style 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. ||| 

Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile 
To see him so reflect their grief aside, 
Turning their solemn looks to half a smile — 
Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide ;— 
But soon a novel advocate I spied. 

LV. 

Quoth he — " We teach all natures to fulfil 

Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet,— 

The bee's sweet alchemy, — the spider's skill, — 

The pismire's care to garner up his wheat, — 

And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, — 

The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest,— 

But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet 

And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast, 

Its tender pity of poor babes distrest. 

LVI. 

"Sometimes we cast our shapes, and in sleek skins 
Delve with the timid mole, that aptly delves 
From our example ; so the spider spins, 
And eke the silkxNoim, pattern'd by ourselves : 
Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves 
Of early bees, and busy toils commence, 
Watch'd of wise men, that know not we are elveSj 
But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense, 
And praise our human-like intelligence. 

LVII. 

•Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale, 
And plaintive dirges the late robins sing, 
What time the leaves are scatter'd by the galc^ 
Mindful of that old forest burying ;— 
As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing, 
For whom our craft most curiously i ontrives, 
If thou hast caught a bee upon the wing. 
To take his honey-bag, — spare us our lives, 
And we will pay the ransom m full hives," 

LVIII. 

" Now by my glass,'' quoth Time, " ye do offend 
In teaching the brown bees that careful lore, 
And frugal ants, whose millions would have end, 
But they lay up for need a timely store. 
And travail with the seasons evermore ; 
Whereas Great Mammoth long hath pass'd away. 
And none l^ut I can tell what hide he wore ; 
Whilst purulind men, the cre.itures of a day, 
In riddling wonder his great bones survey." 



29aii THE PLEA OF THE 



LIX. 

Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold. 
Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun 
Hath all embroider'd with its crooked gold, 
It was so quaintly wrought, and overrun 
With spangled traceries, — most meet for one 
That was a warden of the pearly streams \-~ 
And as he stept out of the shadows dun, 
His jewels sparkled in the pale moon's gleams. 
And shot into the air their pointed beams. 

LX. 

Quoth he — " We bear the cold and silver keys 

Of bubbling springs and fountains, that belnvv 

Course thro' the veiny earth,— which, when thev freeze 

Into hard chrysolites, we bid to flow, 

Creeping like subtle snakes, when, as they go, 

We guide their windings to melodious falls, 

At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low, 

Poets have tuned their smoothest madrigals, 

To sing to ladies in their banquet halls. 

LXI. 

"And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat 

Parches the river-god, — whose dusty urn 

Drips miserly, till scon his crystal feet 

Against his pebbly floor wax iamt and burn, 

And languid hsh, unpoised, grow sick mm\ yearn,— 

Thin scoop we hollows in some sandy nook, 

And little channels dig, wherein v\e turn 

The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook. 

The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook. 

LXI I. 

"Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads, 

With living sapphires daintily inlaid, — 

In all soft songs of waters and their reeds,— 

And all reflections in a streamlet made. 

Haply of thy own love, that, disarray'd, 

Kills the fair lily with a livelier white, — 

By silver trouts upspringing from green shade, 

And v\ im.ing st irs reduplicate at night. 

Spare us, poor ministers to such delight." 

LXI 1 1. 

Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks 

Moved not the spiteful Shade : — Quoth he, " Your taste 

Shoots wide of mine, for 1 despise the brooks 

And slavish rivulets that run to waste 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. if) 

In noontide sweats, or, like poor vassals, haste 
To swell the vast dominion of the sea, 
In whose great presence I am held disgraced, 
And neighbour'd with a king that rivals me 
In ancient might and hoary majesty. 

LXIV. 

"Whereas I ruled in Chaos, and still keep 

The awful secrets of that ancient dearth, 

Before the briny fountains of the deep 

Brimm'd up in hollow cavities of earth ; — 

I saw each trickling Sea-god at his birth, 

Each pe.irly Naiad with her oozy locks, 

And infant Titans of enormous girth, 

Whose huge youn.^ feet yet stumbled on the rocks, 

Stunning the early world with frequent shocks. 

LXV. 

"Where now is Titnn, with his cumbrous brood, 
That scared the world ? — By this sharp scythe they fell. 
And half the sky was curdled with their blood : 
So have all primal giants sigh'd farewell. 
No Wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell, 
Nor pearly Naiads. All their days are done 
That strove with Time, untimely, to excel ; 
Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none 
But my great shadow intercepts the sun ! " 

LXVI. 

Then saith the timid Fay—" O mighty Time ! 
Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans' fall, 
For they were stain'd with many a bloody crime : 
Great giants work great wrongs, — but we are small, 
For love goes lowly ; — but Oppression's tall. 
And with surpassing strides goes foremost still 
Where love indeed can hardly reach at all ; 
Like a poor dwarf o'erburthen'd with good-will, 
That labours to efface the tracks of ilL 

LXVII. 

"Man even strives with Man, but we eschew 
The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor ; 
Nay, we are gentle as sweet heaven's dew, 
Beside the red and horrid drops of war, 
Weeping the cruel ha.c;> men b ittle for. 
Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite: 
For in the gentle breast we ne'er withdraw. 
But only when all love hath taken flight, 
And youth's warm gracious heart is harden'd quite* 



P9I THE PLEA OF THE 

LXVIII. 

** So are our gentle natures intertwined 
With sweet humanities, and closely knit 
In kindly sympathy with human kind. 
Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit, 
All hopeless maids and lovers, — nor omit 
M:igical succours unto hearts forlorn : — 
We charm man's life, and do not perish it ;— - 
So judge us by the helps we show'd this morn 
To one who held his wretched days in scorn. 

V 

LXIX. 

" 'Twas nigh sweet Amwell : — for the Queen had tasFd 

Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea, 
Whereon the noontide sun had not yet bask'd ; 
Wherefore some patient man we thought to see 
Planted in moss-grown rushes to the knee, 
Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim ; — 
Howbeit no patient fisherman was he 
Tiiat cast his sudden shadow from the brim, 
Making us leave our toils to gaze on him. 

LXX. 

" His face was ashy pale, and leaden Care 
Had sunk the leveU'd arches of his brow. 
Once bridges for his joyous thoughts to fare 
Over those melancholy springs and slow, 
That from his piteous eyes be^an to flow, 
And fell anon into the chilly stream ; 
Which, as his mimick'd image bhow'd below. 
Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam. 
Making grief sadder in its own esteem. 

LXXI. 

"And lo ! upon the air we saw him stretch 

His passionate arms ; and, in a wayward strain, 
He 'gan to ele-;ise that fellow-wretch 
That with mute gestures answer'd him again. 
Saying, ' Poor slave! how lonL; wilt thou remain 
Life's sad weak captive in a prison strong, 
Hoi)ing with te irs to rust away tny chain, 
In bitter servitude to .vorldly wrong? — 
Thou wear'st that mortal livery too long I' 

LXXII. 

** This, with more spleenful speeches and some tear% 

When he had spent upon the imaged wave, 
Speedily I convened my elrin peers 
Under the lily-cups, that we might save 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. CK 

This woful mortal from a wilful t^rave 
By shrewd diversions of his mind's regretj 
Seeing he was mere Melancholy's slave, 
That sank wherever a dark cloud he met, 
And straight was tangled in her secret net. 

LXXIII. 

** Therefore, as still he watch'd the water's flow, 
Daintily we transform'd, and with bright fins 
Came glancing through the gloom ; some from below 
Rose like dim fancies when a dream begins, 
Snatching the light upon their purple skins ; 
Then under the broad leaves made slow retire : 
One like a golden gnlley bravely wins 
Its radiant course, — another glows like fire, — 
Making that wayward man our pranks admire. 

LXXIV. 

" And so he banish'd thought, and quite forgot 

All contemplation of that wretched face ; 

And so we wiled him from that lonely spot 

Along the river's brink ; till, by heaven's grace, 

He met a gentle haunter of the place, 

Full of sweet wisdom gather'd from the brooks. 

Who there discuss'd his melancholy case 

With wholesome texts learn'd from kind Nature's books, 

Meanwhile he newly trimm'd his lines and hooks." 

LXXV. 

Herewith the Fairy ceased. Quoth Ariel now— 
** Let me remember how I saved a man, 
Whose fatal noose was fasten'd on a bough. 
Intended to abridge his sad life's span ; 
For haply I was by when he began 
His stern soliloquy in life's dispraise, 
And overheard his melancholy plan, 
How he had made a vow to end his days. 
And therefore foUow'd him in all his ways, 

LXXVI. 

* Through brake and tangled copse,— for much he loAthed 

All populous haunts, and roam'd in forests rude, 

To hide himself from man. But I had clothed 

My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued 

Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, 

Till we were come beside an ancient tree 

Late blasted by a storm. Here he renew'd 

His loud complaints, — choosing that spot to be 

The scene of his last horrid tragedy. 



MfH THE PLEA OF THB 



LXXVII. 

" It was a wild and melancholy glen, 
Made gloomy by lall firs and cypress dark, 
Whose roots, like any bones of buried men, 
Push'd through the rotten sod for Ftar's remark; 
A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark, 
"Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray, 
Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark. 
Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey, 
With many blasted oaks moss-grown and grey. 

LXXVIII. 

"But here, upon his final desperate clause, 

Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain, 

Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause, 

Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain, 

The sad remainder oozing from his brain 

In^ timely ecstasies of healing tears, 

Which through his ardent eyes began to drain ;— 

Meanwhile the deadly Fates unclosed their shears S 

So pity me and all my fated peers ! 

LXXIX. 

Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hush'd, 

When with the hoary Shape a fresh tongue pleads. 

And red as rose the gentle Fairy blush'd 

To read the record of her own good deeds : — 

** It chanced," quoth she, "in seekinij through the mMldl 

For honey'd coN\slips, sweetest in the morn, 

Whilst yet the buds were hung with dewy beads. 

And Echo answer'd to the huntsman's horn, 

We found a babe left in the swarths forlorn ;— 

LXXX. 

** A little, sorrowful, deserted thing, 
Begot of love, and yet no love begetting ; 
Guiltless of shame, and yet for shame to wri'n^: 
And too soon hanish'd from a mother's petting, 
To churlish nurture and the wide world's fretting, 
For alien pity and unnatural care : — 
Alas ! to see how the cold dew kept wetting 
His childish coats, and dabbled all his hair, 
Like gossamers across his forehead fair. 

Lxxxr. 

*'His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech. 
Lay half-way open like a rose-lipp'd shell ; 
And his young cheek was softer than a peach, 
Whereon his tears, for roundness could not dwel^ 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. cjfgy 

But quickly roll'd themselves to pearls, and fell, 
Some on the grass, and some a,i;amst his hand, 
Or haply wander'd to the dimpled well, 
Which love beside his mouth had sweetly plann'd. 
Yet not for tears, but mirth and smiUngs bland. 

LXXXII. 

" Pity it was to see those frequent tears 
Falling regardless from his friendless eyes ; 
There was such beauty in those twin blue spheres, 
As any mother's heart might leap to prize ; 
Blue were they, like the zenith of the skies 
Soften'd betwixt two clouds, both clear and mild :— 
Just touch'd with thou;ght, and yet not over wise, 
They show'd the gentle spirit of a child, 
Not yet by care or any craft defiled 

LXXXII I. 

" Pity it was to see the ardent sun 

Scorching his helpless limbb— it shone so wann ; 

For kindly shade or shelter he had none, 

Nor mother's gentle breast, come fair or storm. 

Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform 

Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries, 

All round the infant noisily we swarm, 

Haply some passing rustic to advise — 

Whilst providential Heaven our care espies, 

LXXXIV. 

"And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind. 
Who, wondering at our loud unusual note, 
Strays curiously aside, and so doth find 
The orphan child laid in the grass remote, 
And laps the foundling in his russet coat. 
Who thence was nurtured in his kindly cot :— 
iJut how he prosper'd let proud London quote, 
How wise, how rich, and how renown'd he got. 
And chief of all her citizens, I wot. 

LXXXV. 

"Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames, 
Whose holds were fraught with costly mercliandise,— 
Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, 
And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies : 
Witness that ro\al Bourse he bade arise, 
The mart of m* rchants from the East and West ; 
Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies, 
Still bears, in token of his grateful breast, 
The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest — 



THE FLEA OF THE 



LXXXVI. 



"The tender grasshoppe*-, his chosen crest, 

That all the summer, with a tuneful wing, 

Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest, 

Inspirited with dew to leap and sing : — 

So let us also live, eternal King ! 

Partakers of the green and pleasant earth : — • 

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing, 

That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth ^"» 

Enough there is of joy's decease and dearth ! 

LXXXVII, 

" Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty, 

Perish'd and gone, and hasting to decay ; — 

Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty 

Or spite it is to havoc and to slay ; 

Too many a lovely race razed quite away, 

Hath left large gaps in life and human loving :— 

Here then begin thy cruel war to stay. 

And spare tresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving 

Thy desolating hand for our removing." 

LXXXVI 1 1. 

Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry. 
And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck 
Grappling with Time, who clutch'd him like a fly, 
Victim of his own sport, — the jester's luck ! 
He, whilst his fellows grieved, poor wight, had stuck 
His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow, 
And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck ; 
Whereat the angry churl had snatch'd him now, 
Crying, " Thou impish mischief, who art thou ? * 

LXXXIX. 

"Alas r" quoth Puck, "a little random elf, 
Born in the sport of nature, like a weed, 
For simple sweet enjoyment of myself. 
But for no other purpose, worth, or need ; 
And yet withal of a most happv breed : — 
And there is Robin Goodfellow besides, 
My partner dear in many a prankish deed 
To make Dame Laughter hold her jolly sides, 
Like merry mummers twain on holy tides. 

XC. 

** 'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork, 
Till e'en the patient man breathes half a curse ; 
We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork. 
And curdling looks with secret straws disperse, 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. ^99 

Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid-verse : 

And when an infant's beauty prospers ill, 

We chany:e, some mothers say, the child at nurse 

But any graver purpose to fuiiil, 

We have not wit enough, and scarce the wilL 

XCI. 

*• We never let the canker melancholy 

To gather on our faces like a rust, 

But gloss our features with some change of folly, 

Taking life's fabled miseries on trust, 

But only sorrowing when sorrow must : 

We ruminate no sage's solemn cud, 

But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust 

To frisk upon a wind, — whereas the flood 

Of tears would turn us into heavy mud. 

XCII. 

" Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature, 

Who gloze her lively universal law, 

As if she had not form'd our cheerful feature 

To be so tickled with the slightest straw ! 

So let them vex their mumping mouths, and draw 

The corners downward, like a watery moon, 

And deal in gusty siL;hs and rainy flaw — 

We will not woo foul weather all too soon, 

Or nurse November on the lap of June. 

XCIII. 

** For ours are winging sprites, like any bird. 
That shun all stagnant settlements of grief ; 
And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd. 
Like insects settled on a dancing leaf: — 
This is our small [ihilosophy in brief, 
Which thus to teach hath set me all agape; 
But dost thou rehsh it? O hoary chief! 
Unclasp thy crooked fingrrs from my nape, 
And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape." 

XCIV. 

Then Saturn thus : — shaking his crooked blade 
O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash 
In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fra/d ! 
His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash — 
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash — 
" Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing ! 
Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash,-— 
To hope my solemn countenance to wring 
To idiot smiles ! — but I will prune thy wing I 



sop THE FLEA OF THE 



XCV. 

"Lo ! this most awful handle of my scythe 
Stood once a Maypole, with a flowery crown, 
Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe, 
To wanton pipings ; — but I pluck'd it down. 
And robed the May Queen in a church\ard gown. 
Turning her buds to rosem iry and rue ; 
And all their merry minstrelsy did drown, 
And laid each lusty leaper in the dew ; — 
So thou shall fare — and every jovial crew 1* 

XCVI. 

Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch 
His mortal engine with each grisly hand. 
Which frights the elfin progeny so much, 
They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand 
All round Titania, like the queen bee's baud. 
With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe !-^ 
Meanwhile, some moving arjiument I plann'd, 
To make the stern Shade merciful, — when lo I 
He drops his fatal scythe without a blow ! 

XCVII. 

For, just at need, a timely Apparition 

Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt ; 

Making him change his horrible position, 

To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt, 

That dares Time's irresistible affront. 

Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old ,<— i 

Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt 

For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold, 

Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. 

XCVIII. 

Who, turning to the small assembled fays, 
Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, 
And holds her beauty for awhile in gaze. 
With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap; 
And thence upon the fair moon's silver map, 
As if in question of this magic chance, 
Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap; 
And then upon old Saturn turns askance, 
Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance :-^ 

xcrx. 

** Oh, these Le Fancy's revellers by night I 
Stealthy companions of the downy moth— 
Dian.i's motes, that flit in her pale light, 
Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth;— 



« 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. yit 

These be the feasters on night's silver cloth, — 
The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener, 
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, 
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. 



"These be the pretty genii of the flowers. 

Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — 

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, 

King Oberon, and all his merry crew, 

The darling puppets of romance's view ; 

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them. 

Famous for patronage of lovers true ; — 

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them, 

So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them." 

CI. 

Oh, what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made 

The fairies quake. "What care I for their pranks. 

However they may lovers choose to aid, 

Or dance their roundelays on flowery banks? — 

Long must they dance before they earn my thanks,- 

So step aside, to some far safer spot, 

Whilst with my hungry scythe I mow their ranks. 

And leave them in the sun, like weeds, to rot, 

And with the next day's sun to be forgot." 

CI I. 

Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen ; 
But still the gracious Shade disarm'd his aim, 
Stepping with brave alacrity between, 
And made his sere arm powerless and tame. 
His be perpetual glory, for the shame 
Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat !— 
But I must tell how here Titania came 
With all her kneeling lieges, to entreat 
His kindly succour, in sad tones, but sweet 

CIII. 

Saying, " Thou seest a wretched queen before the«^ 

The fading power of a failing land. 

Who for her kingdom kneeleth to implore thee, 

Now menaced by this tyrant's spoiling hand ; 

No one but thee can hopefully withstand 

That crooked blade, he lon;;eth so to lift. 

I pray thee bhnd him with his own vile sand. 

Which only times all ruins by its drift, 

Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. 



THE PLEA OF THE 



CIV. 



** Or take him by that sole and grizzled tuft, 
That hangs upon his bald and barren crown; 
And we will sing to see him so rebufiPd, 
And lend our little mights to pull hmi down, 
And make brave sport of his m.dicious frown. 
For all his boastful mockery o'er men. 
For thou wast born, 1 know, for this renown, 
By my most magical and inward ken, 
That readeth even at Fate's forestalling pen. 

cv. 

" Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye, 
And by thy brow's most fair and ample span, 
Thought's glorious pnlace, framed for f.incies high. 
And by thy cheek thus prissionately wan, — 
1 know the signs ot an immortal man, — 
Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate, 
Destined to foil old Death's oblivious ulan, 
And shine untarnish'd by the fogs of Fate, 
Time's famous rival till the final date ! 

CVI. 

" Oh, shield us then from this usurping Time, 
And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams, 
And teach thee tunes to wed unto thy rhyme, 
And dance about thee in ail mid'iight gleams, 
Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes, 
Such as no mortal's eye hath ever seen ; 
And, for thy love to us m our extremes. 
Will ever keep thy chaplet Iresh and green. 
Such as no poet's wre.th hath ever been ! 

CVII. 

" And we'll distil thee aromatic dews, 

To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flowers { 

And iiavour'd s\rups in thy drinks infuse, 

And teach the nii^hiingale to haunt thy bowers. 

And with our games divert thy weariest hours, 

Wich all that elhu wits can e'er devise. 

And this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours 

To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy tiies : " — 

Here she was stopp'd by Saturn's furious cries ; 

CVI 1 1, 

Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew, 
Saying, " Thou haggard Sin ! go forth, and scoop 
Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew, 
Or mane th' autumnal tlowers turn pale, and droop; 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. JOJ 

Or fell the bearded com, till gleaners st<K>p 
Under fat sheaves, — or blast the piny grove ; — 
But here thou shalt not harm this pretty group, 
Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove, 
But leased on Nature's loveliness and love. 

CIX. 

"'Tis these that free the small entangled fly, 
Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare ;— 
These be the petty surgeons that apply 
Tlie healing balsams to the wounded hare, 
Bf dded in bloody fern, no creature's care ! — 
These be providers for the orphan brood, 
Whose tender mother hath been slain in air, 
Quitting with gaping bill her darling^s food, 
Hard by the verge of her domestic wood. 

ex. 

*' 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag, 
When, with a bursting heart beset with fears, 
He feels his saving speed be^in to flag ; 
For then they quench the fatal taint with tears. 
And prompt fresh shifts in his alarum'd ears. 
So pitt'ously they view all bloody morts ; 
Or if the gunner, with his arm, appears, 
Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports, 
They warn the wildfowl of his deadly sports. 

CXI. 

" For these are kindly ministers of nature, 
To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; 
Pretty they be, and very small of stature, — 
For mercy still consorts with littleness ; — 
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less. 
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong }— • 
So do these charitable dwarfs redress 
The tenfold ravages of giants strong, 
To whom great malice and great might belong. 

CXII. 

" Likewise to them are Poets much beholden 
For secret favours in the midnight glooms ; 
Brave Spenser quaff'd out of their goblets golden, 
And saw their tables spread of prompt mushroomSi 
And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms 
Sounding upon the air most soothing soft, 
Like humming bees busy about the brooms, — 
And ^'lanced this fair queen's witchery full oft, 
And in her masric wain soar'd far aloft. 



:)04 ^-^^ -^^^-^ OF THE 



cxiir. 

" Nay, I myself, though mortal, once was nursed 

By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth, 

And in my childish ear glib Mab rehearsed 

Her Ijreezy travels round our planet's girth, 

Telling me wonders of the moon and earth ; 

My gramarye at her grave lap I conn'd, 

Wnere Puck hath been convened to make me mirth ; 

I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond, 

And toy'd with Oberon's permitted wand. 

CXIV. 

** With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me^ 
And delicate catcs after my sunset meal, 
And took me by my childish hand and led me 
By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel. 
Whose awful bases deep dark woods conceal, 
Stainmg some dead lake with their verdant dyes : 
And when the West sparkled at Phoebus' wheel, 
With fairy euphrasy they purged mine eyes, 
To let me see their cities in the skies. 

cxv. 

" 'Twas they first school'd my young imagination 

To take its flights like any new-fledied bird, 

And show'd the span of winged meditation 

Strctch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard ; 

With sweet swift Ariel how I soar'd and stirr'd 

Tlie fragrant blooms of spiritual bowers ! 

'Twas they endear'd what I have still preferr'd, 

Nature's blest attributes and balmy powers, 

Her hills, and vales, and brooks, sweet birds and flowers I 

CXVI. 

"Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty 

Will 1 regard them in my honouring rhyme, 

With love for love, and homages to beauty, 

And magic thoughts gather d in night's cool clime, 

With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, 

Strong as old Merlin's necrom:intic spells ; 

So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime 

Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells. 

Till shrill larks warn them to their flowery cells.* 

CXVII. 

Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, 
Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore. 
That sets his horrid features all at rack, — 
So seem'd these words into the ear to pour 



MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. yg^, 

Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar 
Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage, 
Whtrewith his grisly arm he raised once mor^ 
And bade the clustered sinews all en,t;age, 
As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age. 

CXVIII. 

Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted ground, 
Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar 
On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; 
But Time was long benumb'd, and stood ajar, 
And then with baffled rage took flight afar, 
To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, 
Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar. 
Or sharp his scythe for royal strokes of doom. 
Whetting its edge on some old Caesar's tomb. 

CXIX. 

Howbeit he vanish'd in the forest shade. 
Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard, 
And, like Narcissus, to a sound decay'd ; — 
Meanwhile the fays cluster'd the gracious Bard, 
The darling centre of their dear regard : 
Besides of sundry dances on the green, 
Never was mortal man so brightly starr'd. 
Or won such pretty homages, I ween. 
*' Nod to him, Elves ! " cries the melodious queen. 

cxx. 

"Nod to him, Elves, and flutter round about him, 
And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd, 
And touch him lovingly, for that, without him. 
The silkworm now had spun our dreary shroud f— 
But he hath all dispersed death's tearful cloud, 
And Time's dread effigy scared quite away : 
Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd, 
And his dear wishes prosper and obey 
Wherever love and wit can find a way I 

CXXI. 

"'Noint him with fairy dews of magic savours, 
Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet, 
Roses and spicy pinks,— and, of aU favours. 
Plant in his walks the purple violet. 
And meadow-sweet under the hedges set. 
To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine 
And honeysuckles sweet, — nor yet forget 
Some pastoral flowery chaplets to entwine, 
To vie the thoughts about his brow benign ! 



506 PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 

CXXII. 

" Let no wild thin;4S astonish him or fear him. 
But tell them all liow mild he is of heart, 
Till e'en the timid hares go frankly near him, 
And eke the dappled does, yet never start ; 
Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart, 
Nor wrens forsake their nests among the leaves, 
Nor speckled thrushes flutter far ap irt ; — 
But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves, 
To guard his roof from lightning and from thieves. 

CXXIII. 

*' Or when he ?oes the nimble squirrel's visitor. 
Let the brown hermit bring his hoarded nuts, 
For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor, — 
Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience shuts. 
For conscious wrong all curious quest rebuts, — 
Nor yet shall bees uncase their jealous stings, 
However he may watch their straw-built huts ;— 
So let him learn the crafts of all small things, 
Which he will hint most aptly when he sings.* 

cxxiv. 

Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand 
"Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head ; 
Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, 
Wears still the glory which her waving shed, 
Such as erst crown'd the old Anostle's head. 
To show the tlioughts there h:irbour'd were divine, 
And on immortal contemi>lations fed: — 
Goodly it was to see that glory shine 
Around a brow so lofty and benign 1 

cxxv. 

Goodly it was to see the elfin brood 
Contend for kisses of his ^^entle hand, 
That had their mortal enemy withstood, 
And stay'd their lives, fast eljbing with the sand. 
Long while this strife engaged the pretty band; 
But now bold Chanticleer, from farm to farm, 
Challenged the dawn creeping oer eastern land. 
And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm, 
Which sounds the knell of every elfibh charna. 

cxxvi. 

And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise 
From plashy mead and undiscover'd streana. 
Earth's morning incense to the early skies. 
Crept o'er the failing landscape of my dream. 



HERO AND LEANDER. ^ 

Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme — 
A shapeless shade, that fancy disavow'd, 
And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme. 
Then flew Titania,— and her little crowd, 
Like fiocking linnets, vanish'd in a cloud. 



yl.KI-V. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 

It is not with a hope my feeble praise 

Can add one moment's honour to thy own, 

That with thy mighty name 1 grace these lays ; 

I seek to glorify myself alone : 

For that some precious favour thou hast shown 

To my endeavour in a bygone time. 

And by this token, I would have it known 

Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme 1 

It IS my dear ambition now to climb 

Still higher in thy thought, — if my bold pen 

May thrust on contemplations more sublime.— 

But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when 

We gain applauses from the great in name. 

We seem to be partakers of their fame. 



O BARDS of old ! what sorrows have ye sung, 
And tragic stories, chronicLd in stone, — 
Sad Philomel restored her ravish'd tongue, 
And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown ; 
Sweet Sappho on her love for ever calls, 
And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls ! 

II. 

Was it that spectacles of sadder plights 
Should make our blisses relish the more high? 
Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knight^ 
Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye, 
Weep here, unto a tale of ancient ^rief, 
Traced from the course of an old bas-relief. 

III. 
There stands Abydos ! — here is Sestos' steep, 
Hard by the gusty margin of the sea, 
Where sprinkling waves continually do leap ; 
And that is where those famous lovers be, 
A builded gloom shot up into the grey. 
As if the first tall watch-tower of the day. 



HERO AND LEANDEJt 

IV. 

Lo ! how the lark soars upward and is gone ; 
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky, 
His voice is iieard, though body there is none^ 
And rainlike music scatters from on h\ih ; 
But Love would follow with a falcon spite, 
To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height 



For Love hath framed a ditty of regrets, 
Tuned to the hollow sobbings on tue shore, 
A vexing sense, that with like music frets, 
And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o'er, 
Saying, Leander's joys are past and spent, 
Like stars extinguish'd in the firmament. 

VI. 

For ere the golden crevices of morn 

Let in those regal luxuries of li^ht 

Which all the variable east adorn, 

And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night, 

Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side, 

Must leave a widow where he found a bride, 

VII. 

Hark how the billows beat upon the sand I 
Like pawing steeds impatient of delay ; 
Meanwhile their rider, lingering on the land, 
Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay 
A too short span. — How tedious slow is grief I 
But parting renders time both sad and brief. 

VIII. 

" Alas ! (he sigh'd), that this first glimpsing light, 

Which makes the wide world tenderly appear, 

Should be the burning signal for my flight, 

From all the world's best image, which is here ; 

Whose very shadow, in my fond compare, 

Shines far more bright than Beauty's self elsewhere* 

IX. 

Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark, 
Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale, 
And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark, 
AH dim and tarnish'd with a dreary veil, 
No more to kindle till the night's return, 
T i'-^ St Ts replenish'd at Joy's golden urn. 



HERO AND LEANDER. JOQ 



X. • 

Even thus they creep into the spectral grey, 
That cramps the landscape in its narrow brim, 
As when two shadows by old Lethe stray, 
He clasping her, and she entwining him ; 
Like trees wind-parted that embrace anon. 
True love so often goes before 'tis gone. 

XI. 

For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, 
To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss ? 
So Hero dotes upon her treasure here. 
And sums the loss with many an anxious kisSj 
Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, 
Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread. 

XII. 

She thinks how many have been sunk and drown'd. 
And spies their snow-white bones below the deep, 
Then calls huge congregated monsters round, 
And plants a rock wherever he " ould leap ; 
Anon she dwells on a fantastic dream. 
Which she interprets of that fatal stream. 

XIII. 

Saying, "That honey'd fly I saw was thee, 
Which lighted on a waterlily's cup. 
When lo ! the flower, enamour'd of my bee, 
Closed on him suddenly, and lock'd him up, 
And he was smother'd in her drenching dew ; 
Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue* 

XIV. 

But next, remembering her virgin fame, 

She clips him in her arms and bids him po ; 

But seeing him break loose, repents her shame, 

And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow ; 

And tears unfix her iced resolve again, 

As steadfast frosts are thaw'd by showers of rain. 

XV. 

Oh, for a type of parting ! — Love to love 
Is like the fond attraction of two spheres, 
Which needs a godlike effort to remove, 
And then sink down their sunny atmospheres, 
In rain and darkness on each ruin'd heart, 
Nor yet their melodies will sound apart. 



310 HERO AND LEANDER* 



" XVI, 

So brave Leander sunders from his bride ; 

The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain ; 

Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide,— 

And life must ache, until they join again. 

Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound, 

Mete every step he takes upon the ground. 

XVII. 

And for the agony and bosom-throe, 

Let it be measured by the wide vast air ; 

For that is infinite, and so is woe. 

Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere. 

Look how it heaves Leander's labouring chest, 

Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest ! 

XVIII. 

From which he leaps into the scooping brine, 
That shocks his bosom with a dt)uble chill ; 
Because, all hours, till the slow sun's decline^. 
That cold divorcer will betv\ ixt them still ; 
Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide, 
Where life grows death upon the other sidft 

XIX. 

Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil 
Against rude waves and an unwilling mind, 
Wishing, alas ! with the stout rower's toil, 
That like a rower he might gaze behind. 
And watch that lonely statue he hath left 
On her bleak summit, weeping and bereft t 



Yet turning oft, he sees her troubled locks 
Pursue him still tlie furthest that they may ; 
Her marble arms that overstretch the rocks, 
And her pale passion'd hands that seem to pray 
In dumb petition to the gods above : 
Love prays devoutly when it prays for love I 

XXI. 

Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave. 
That hangs superfluous tears upon his cheek. 
And bans his labour like a hopeless slave. 
That, cliain'd in hostile galley, faint and weak, 
Plies on despairing throuL;h the restless foam, 
Thoughtful of his lost love, and far-off home. 



HERO AND LEANDER, <fir 



XXII. 

The drowsy mist before him, chill and dank, 
Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea, 
Where he rows on against the utter blank. 
Steering as if to dim eternity, — 
Like Love's frail ghost departing with the dawilf 
A failing shadow in the twilight drawn. 

XXIII. 

And soon is gone, — or nothing but a faint 
And failing image in the eye of thought, 
That mocks his model with an after-paint, 
And stains an atom like the shape she sought ; 
Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee 
The old and hoary majesty of sea. 

XXIV. 

••O King of waves, and brother of high Jove! 
Preserve my sumless venture there afloat ; 
A woman's heart, and its whole wealth of love, 
Are all embark'd upon that little boat ; 
Nay, but two loves, two lives, a double fate, 
A perilous voyage for so dear a freight. 

XXV. 

* If impious mariners be stain'd with crime, 
Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks ; 
Lay by thy storms until another time. 
Lest my frail bark be dash'd against the rocks : 
Oh, rather smooth thy deeps, that he mayfly 
Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky ! 

XXVI. 

** Let all thy herded monsters sleep beneath, 

Nor gore him with crook'd tusks, or wreathed horns, 

Let no Berce sharks destroy him with their teeth, 

Nor spine-fish wound him with their venom'd thorns ; 

But if he faint, and timely succour lack, 

Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back. 

XXVII. 

** Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in, 
Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath ; 
Let no jagg'd corals tear his tender skin. 
Nor mountain billows bury'him in death ;" 
And with that thought forestalling her own fear^ 
She drown'd his painted image in her tears. 



312 HERO AND LEANDER, 

X^CVIII. 

By this, the climbing ?un. with rest repaired, 
Look'd throuj^h the gold embrasures of ihe sky, 
And ask'd the drowsy world how she had fared ;— 
The drowsy world shone brij^hten'd in reply ; 
And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam 
Spied young Leander in the middle stream. 

XXIX. 

His face was pallid, but the hectic mom 
Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, 
And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn ; 
So death lies ambiish'd in consumptive streaks; 
But inward grief was writhing o'er its task, 
As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask. 

XXX. 

He thought of Hero and the lost delight, 
Her last embracings, and the space between ; 
He thought of Hero and the future niijht. 
Her speechless rapture and ennmour'd mien ; 
When lo ! before him, scarce two galleys' space^ 
His thought's confronted with another face I 

XXXI. 

Her aspect's like a moon divinely fair. 

But makes the midnight darker that it lies on } 

*Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair 

That densely skirts her luminous horizon, 

Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set, 

As marble lies advantaged upon jet. 

XXXII. 

She's all too bright, too argent, and too pale, 

To be a woman ; — but a woman's double, 

Reflected on the wave so faint and frail, 

She lops the billows like an air-blown bubble ; 

Or dim creation of a morning dream, 

Fair as the wave-bleach'd lily of the stream. 

XXXIII. 

The very rumour strikes his seeing dead : 

Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense : 

He knows not if her lips be blue or red. 

Nor of her eyes can give true evidence : 

Like murder's witness swooning in the coun, 

His sight falls senseless by its own report. 



HERO AND LEANDER, \\\ 

XXXIV. 

Anon resuming, it declares her eyes 
Are tinct with azure, hke two crystal wells 
That drink the blue complex-ion of the skies, 
Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells ; 
Her polish d brow, it is an ample plain, 
To lodge vast contemplations of the main. 

XXXV. 

Her lips miglit corals seem, but corals near, 
Stray throui^h her hair like blossoms on a bower } 
And o'er the weaker red still domineer, 
And make it pale by tribute to more power; 
Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue, 
Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue; 

XXXVI. 

Thus he beholds her rockin? on the water, 
Under the glossy umbrage of her hair, 
Like pearly Amphitrite's fairest daughter 
Naiad, or Nereid, — or Syren fair, 
Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, 
A nightingale within a falcon's nest 

XXXVII. 

They say there be such maidens in the deep, 
Charming poor mariners, that all too near 
By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep, 
As drowsy men are poison'd through the ear } 
Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge. 
This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge. 

XXXVIIL 

At which he falls into a deadly chill. 
And strains his eyes upon her lips apart ; 
Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill 
Pierce through his marrow, like a bre ith-blown dart 
Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane. 
With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain. 

XXXIX. 

Here then, poor wretch, how he beeins to crowd 
A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space ; 
There seem'd so brief a pause of life allow'd. 
His mind stn-tch'd universal, to embrace 
The whole wide world in an extreme farewell, — 
A moment's musing — but an age to tell. 



114 HERO AND LEANDER, 



XL. 

For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, 

The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact, 

Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and wither'd countenance 

A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd ; 

Time's tragic consequents ere time began| 

A world of sorrow in a teardrop's span. ^ 

XLI. 

A moment's thinking is an hour in words,-— 
An hour of words is little for some woes ; 
Too little breathing a long life aftords. 
For love to paint itself by perfect shows ; 
Then let his love and grief unwrong'd lie dumb^ 
Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come. 

XLII. 

As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape. 
Struck pale and panick'd by the billows' roar^ 
Lav by all timely measures of escape, 
And let their bark go driving on the shore; 
So fray'd Leander, drifting to his wreck, 
Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck. 

XLIII. 

For he hath all forgot the swimmer's art, 
The rower's cunnin;,', and the pilot's skill, 
Letting his arms fall down in lant;uid part, 
Sway'd by the waves, and nothing by his will, 
Till soon he jars ai;ainst that elossv skin, 
Solid like glass, though seemingly as thin. 

XLIV. 

Lo ! how she startles at the warning shock. 
And straightway girds him to her radiant breastt 
More like his safe smooth h irbour tlian his roclfi. 
Poor wretch ! he is so faint and tdil-opprest, 
He cannot loose him from his grapplin:^ foe; 
Whether for love or hate, she lets not go. 

XLV. 

His eyes are blinded witli the sleety brine, 

His ears are deafen'd with the wildering noise; 

He asks the purpose of her fell design. 

But foamy waves choke un his strugL;ling voice; 

Under the ponderous sea his body dips, 

And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 315 



XLVI. 

Loolc how a rnan is lower'd to his grave ; 
A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap ; 
So he is sunk into the yawning wave, 
The plunging sea fills up the watery gap ; 
Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen. 
But likeness of green turf and hillocks green. 

XLVII. 

And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, 
Over the verdant plain that makes his bed ; 
And all the noisy waves go freshiy leaping, 
Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead ; 
The light in vain keeps looking for his face, 
Now screaming seafowl settle in his place. 

XLVIII. 

Yet weep and watch for him though all in vain ! 
Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye v.'ander! 
Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again ! 
Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander t 
Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape, 
Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape ! 

XLIX. 

She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed, 
The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her. 
O bootless theft ! unprofitable meed ! 
Love's treasury is sack'd, but she no richer ; 
The sparkles of his e\ es are cold and dead. 
And all his golden looks are turn'd to lead t 

L. 

She holds the casket, but her simple hand 
Hath spill'd its dearest jewel b\' the way ; 
She hath life's empty garment at command, 
But her own death lies covert in the prey ; 
As if a thief should steal a tainted vest. 
Some dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest, 

LI. 

Now she compels him to her deeps below, 

Hiding his face beneath her plenteous hair, 
Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, 
For dread of envy, though no eyes are there 
But seals', and all brute tenants of the deep, 
Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep. 



'ttf HERO AND LEANDER, 



Lll. 

Down and still downward through the dusky green 

She bore him, murmuring with joyo.is haste 

In too rash ignorance, as he had bten 

Born to the texture of that watery waste ; 

That which she breathed and sigh'd, the emerald wave. 

How could her pleasant home become his grave! 

LIU. 

Down and still downward throu'^h the dusky green 
She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh 
To mark how life was alter'd in his mien, 
Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, 
Or how his pearly breath, unprison'd there, 
Flew up to join the universal air. 

LIV, 

She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, 
Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy ; 
She could not guess he struggled to dejiart, 
And when he strove no more, the hapless boy 1 
She reao his mortal stillness for content. 
Feeling no fear where only love was meant. 

LV. 

Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor, 

And straight unyokes her arms from her fair priie ; 

Then on his lovely face begins to pore, 

As if to glut her soul ; — her hungry eyes 

Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight ; 

It seems he hath no other sense but sight. 

LVI. 

But O sad marvel ! O most bitter strange ! 
What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale, 
Why will he not embrace, — why not exchange 
Her kindly kisses ; — wherefore not exhale 
Some odorous message from life's ruby gates. 
Where she his first sweet embassy awaits ? 

LVI I. 

Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks, 
Are grappled with a wonder near to grief, 
As one who pores on undecipher'd books. 
Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; 
So she keeps gazing with a mazy thoui;ht. 
Framing a thousand doubts that end in nought. 



HERO AND LEANDER, J17 



LVIII. 

Too stern inscription for a page so young, 
The dark translation of his look was Death 1 
But Death was written in an alien tongue, 
And Learning was not by to give it breath; 
So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal, 
Which Time, untirriely, hasteth to reveal. 

Lix. 

Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, 
Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there 
With heavy head lies pillow'd in her lap. 
And elbows all unhinged ; — his sleeking hair 
Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand 
Leans with lax hngers crook'd against the sand ; 

LX. 

And there lies spread in many an oozy trail, 

Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base, 
That shows no whiter than his brow is pale ; 
So soon the wintry death had bleach'd his face 
Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades, 
Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades. 

LXI. 

And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain 
Hath set, and stiffen'd like a storm in ice, 
Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain 
Of inoital anguish ; — yet you might gaze twice 
Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleep, 
That through those creviced lids did underpeep. 

LXII. 

But all that tender bloom about his eyes, 

Is Death's own violets, which his utmost rite 

It is to scatter when the red rose dies ; 

For blue is chilly, and akin to white : 

Also he leaves some tinges on his lips. 

Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nips. 

LXIII, 

" Surely," quoth she, " he sleeps, the senseless thing, 
Oppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream 1 " 
Tlierefore she will not mar his rest, but sing 
So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream; 
Meanwhile, her lily hngers task to twine 
His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine. 



lit HERO AND LE/NDER. 



LXIV. 

** O lovely boy ! " — thus she attuned her voice, — 
"Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home; 
My love-mate thou sh.ilt be, and true heart's choice; 
How have I long'd such a twin-s<4f should come, — 
A lonely thmy, till this sweet chance befell, 
My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell. 

LXV. 

" Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome, 
An ocean bower, defended by the shade 
Of quiet waters ; a cool emerald gloom 
To lap thee all about. Nay. be not fray'd, 
Those are but shady fishes that sail by 
Like antic clouds across my liquid sky 1 

LXVI. 

** Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales^ 
And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins ; 
They Hash small lightnings from their vii^orous tails. 
And w Hiking stars are kindled at their fins ; 
These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood, 
And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food. 

LXVI I. 

** Lo ' those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, 
My /lowrets those, that never pine for drouth ; 
Myself did plant them in the dappled shells 
That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth, — 
Pearls wouldst thou have beside? crystals to shine? 
I had such treasures once, — now they are thine. 

LXVIII. 

** Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand, 
And thou shalt hear the inusic of tne sea, 
Those hollow tunes it plays a;4ainst the land, — 
Is't not a rich and wondr<-)us melody ? 
I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone 
I heard the languages of ages gone I 

LXIX. 

**I too can sing when it sliall please thy choice, 
And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell, 
Thouj^h heretofore I have but set my voice 
To some long sighs, grief harmonised, to tell 
How desolate I fared ; — but this sweet change 
Will add new notes of gladness to my range I 



HERO AND LEANDER. 319 



LXX. 

**0r bid me speak, and I will tell thee tales 
Which I have framed out of the noise of waves ; 
Ere now I have communed with senseless i^ales, 
And held vain colloquies with barren caves ; 
But I could talk to thee whole days and days, 
Only to word my love a thousand ways. 

LXXI. 

** But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, 

Then ope, sweet oracles ! and I'll be mute ; 

I was born ignorant for thee to teach, 

Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute ; 

Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light 

I saw to give away my heart aright 1 " 

LXXII. 

But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies, 
Over her knees, and with concealing clay. 
Like hoarding Avarice locks up his eyes, 
And leaves her world impoverish'd of day ; 
Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead, 
But there the door is closed against her need* 

LXXIIL 

Surely he sleeps, — so her false wits infer ! 
Alas ! poor sluggard, ne'er to wake again I 
Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir 
That might denote a visVTi in his brain ; 
Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, — 
Twice she hath reach'd the ending of her song. 

LXXIV. 

Therefore 'tis time, she tells him, to uncover 
Those radiant jesters, and disperse her fears, 
Whereby her April face is shaded over, 
Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears J 
Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets, 
Herself must rob those lock'd up cabinets, 

LXXV. 

With that she stoops above his brow, and bids 
Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, 
And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, 
That she may gaze upon the jewels there, 
Like babes that pluck an early bud apart. 
To know the dainty colour of its heart. 



S30 HERO AND LEANDER, 



LXXVI. 

Now, picture one, soft creepinjj to a bed, 
Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies, 
And then starts back to find the sleeper dead; 
So she looks in on his uncover'd eyes, 
And seeing all within so drear and dark, 
Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark* 

LXXVII. 

Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, 

Under the swoon of holy divination : 

And what had all surpass'd her simple guess, 

She now resolves in this dark revelation ; 

Death's very mystery, — -oblivious death : — 

Long sleep, — deep night, and an entranced breatlk 

LXXVI 1 1. 

Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain, 
Merely obscured, and not extinguish'd, lies ; 
Her breath, that stood at ebb, soon flows again, 
Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs, 
And light comes in, and kindles up the gloom. 
To light her spirit from its transient tomb. 

LXXIX. 

Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn, 
With pale, bewilder'd face she peers about, 
And suies blurr'd images obscurely drawn, 
Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt ; 
But her true grief grows shapely by degrees, 
A pensh'd creature lying on her knees. 

LXXX. 

And now she knows how that old Murther prey% 
Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain ; 
How he roams all abroad and grimly slays, 
Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain ; 
Parting fond mates, — and oft in flowery lawn* 
Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns. 

LXXXI. 

O too dear knowledge ! O pernicious earning! 
Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page ! 
Even now the sorrow of that de.idly learning 
Ploughs up her brow like an untimely a;^e, 
And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth, 
By canker blights upon the bud of youth I 



HERO AND LEANDER. 321 



LXXXII. 

For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf, 
So her cheeks' rose is perish'd by her sighs, 
And withers in the sickly breath of grief; 
Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes, 
Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt 
From those young lids, now plentifully wept. 

LXXXIII. 

Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline 
Drops straightway down, refusing to partake 
In gross admixture with the baser brine, 
But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque^ 
Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears ; 
So one maid's trophy is another's tears ! 

LXXXIV. 

" O foul Arch-Shadow ! thou old cloud of Night ! 
(Thus in her frenzy she began to wail), 
Thou blank oblivion — blotter out of light, 
Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale ! 
Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete, 
Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet ? 

LXXXV. 

** Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made, 
Alas, alas ! thou hast no eyes to see. 
And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade. 
Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! 
But now I turn to thee, a willing mark. 
Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark I 

LXXXVI. 

** O doubly cruel ! — twice misdoing spite. 

But I will guide thee with my helpuig eyes, 

Or walk the wide world through, devoid of sight. 

Yet thou shall know me by my many sighs. 

Nay, then thou shouldst have spared my rose, false Death 

And known Love's floner by smelling his sweet breath ; 

Lxxxvir. 

* Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing, 
Love should have grown from touching of his skin, 
But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling, 
And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within, 
And being but a shape of freezing bone, 
Thy touching only turn'd my love to stone I 



gaa HERO AND LEANDER, 

LXXXVIII. 

** And here, alas ! he lies across mv knees, 
Witii cheeks still colder than the stilly w-.ve, 
Tiie Ii:^ht beneath his eyelids seems to freeze, 
Here then, since Lo\'e is dead and lacks a grave> 
Oh, come and dig it in my sad heart's core — 
That wound will bring a balsam for its sore ! 

LXXXIX. 

*' For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill 
Lies stmgle-s, like a sense benumb'd with cold, 
Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will 
So shall I slumber, and perchance behold 
My living love in dreams, — O hapny night, 
That lets me company his banish'd spright ! 

xc 

" O poppy De.ith ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ! 
"Where shall 1 seek for thee, oblivious drug, 
That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep 
Out of life's coil. Look, Idol ! liow I hug 
Thy dainty image in this strict embrace, 
And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face ! 

xcr. 

"Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, 
I do but read my sorrows by their shine ; 
Oh, come and quench them with thy oozy damps, 
And let my darkness intermix with thine ; 
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see, 
Now love is death, — death will be love to me 1 

XCII. 

•* Away, away, this vain complaining breath. 
It does but stir the troubles th.u 1 weep ; 
Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death ; 
The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,-^ 
Since love is silent, I would fain be mute, 
O Death, be gracious to my dying suit !" 

XCIII. 

Thus far she pleads, but pleading nought avails her. 
For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed ; 
Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails her 
She prays to Heaven's tair light, as if her need 
Inspired her there were gods to pity pain, 
Or end it, — but she lifts lier arms in vain i 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



XCIV. 

Poor gilded Grief! the subtle light by this 
With m.izy gold creeps through her \v;;tery mine, 
And, diving downward through the green abyss, 
Lights up her palace with an amber shine ; 
There, falling on her arms, — the crystal skin 
Reveals the ruby tide that fares within. 

XCV. 

Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory 
On her dark hair, but the dark hairs rtpel it ; 
Look how the perjured glow suborns a story 
On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it ; 
Grief will not swerve from grief, however told 
On coral lips, or character'd in gold ; 

XCVI. 

Or else, thou maid ! safe anchor'd on Love's neck, 

Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, 
Tliou wouldst not shed a tear for that old wreck, 
Sitting secure where no wild surges w.mder; 
Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, 
And shows its sad reflection in thy face. 

XCVII. 

Thus having travell'd on, and track'd the tale. 
Like the due course of an old bMS-relief, 
Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale, 
Brood here awhile upon ih;it se.i-maid's grief, 
And take a deeper imprint from the frieze 
Of that young Fate, with Death upon her knees, 

XCVIII. 

Then whilst the melancholy muse withal 
Resumes her music m a sadder tune. 
Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall, 
Conceive that lovely siren to live on. 
Even as Hope whisper'd the Promethean light 
Would kindle up the dead Leander's spright. 

XCIX. 

**'Tis light," she says, " that feeds the glittering stars, 
And those were stars set in his heavenly brow ; 
But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapour, mars 
Their radiant breathing, and obscures them now. 
Therefore I'll lay him in the clear blue air, 
And see how these dull orbs will kmdle there." ••-' 



2*4 HERO AND LEANDER, 



Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet, 
With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold, 
She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net 
The sun hath twined above of liquid gold, 
Nor slacks till, on the margin of the land, 
She lays his body on the glowing sand. 

CI. 

There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach 
Of foamy billows, he lies cast. Just then, 
Some listless fishers, straying down the beach, 
Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, 
Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, 
And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache* 

Cil. 

First she begins to chafe him till she faints, 
Then falls upon hib mouth with kisses many, 
And sometimes pauses m her own complaints 
To list his breathing, but there is not any, — 
Then looks into his eyes, where no li:^ht dwells,— 
Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells. 

cm. 

The hot sun parches his discover'd eyes, 

The hot sun beats on his discolour'd limbs. 

The sand is oozy whereupon he lies, 

Soiling his fairness ; — then away she swims, 

Meaning to gather him a daintier bed, 

Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red. 

CIV. 

But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under. 
Another robs her of her amorous theft ; 
The ambush'd fishermen creep forth to plunder 
And steal the unwatch'd treasure she has lelt ; 
Only his void impression dints the sands, — 
Leander is purloin'd by stealthy hands ! 

cv. 

Lo ! how she shudders off the beaded wave f 
Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls, 
His void imprmt seems hollow'd lor her grave, 
Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls 
On Hero ! Hero ! having leain'd this name 
Of his last breath, she calls him by the same. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



CVI. 

Then with her frantic hands she rends her hnirs, 

And i asts them forth, sad keepsakes, to the wind, 
As if in plucking those she [jiuck'd her cares; 
But grief lies deeper, and remains behind 
Like a barb'd arrow, rankhng in her brain, 
Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain. 

CVII. 

Anon her tangled locks are left alone, 
And down upon the sand she mtekly sits, 
Hard by the foam as humble as a stone, 
Like an enchanted maid beside her wits, 
That ponders with a look serene and tragic, 
Stunn'd by the mighty mystery of magic. 

CVIII. 

Or think of Ariadne's utter trance, 

Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor, 

Who left htr gazing on the green expanse 

That swallow'd up his track, — yet this would mate her. 

Even in the cloudy summit of her woe. 

When o'er the far sea-brim she saw him go, 

CIX. 

For even so she bows, and bends her gaze 

O'er the eternal waste, as if to sum 

Its waves by weary thousands al! her days, 

Dismally doom'd ! meanwhile the billows come, 

And coldly dabble with her quiet feet. 

Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet ; 

ex. • 

And thence into her lap have boldly sprung, 

Washing her weedy tresses to and fro, 

That round her crouching knees have darkly hung, 

But she sits careless of waves' ebb and flow, 

Like a lone beacon on a desert coast. 

Showing where all her hope was wreck'd and lost 

CXI. 

Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky, 
She knoweth not her love's abrupt resort, 
So like a shape of dreams he left her eye, 
Winkint,' with doubt. Meanwhile the churls' report 
His throng'd the beach with many a curious face, 
That peeps upon her from its hiding-place. 



§K HERO A.VD LEAiVDER, 



CXIT. 

And here a head, nnd there a brow half seen. 

Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands 

A marintr his crumpled cheeks doih lean 

Over a ruyged cr^st. Another stands, 

Holding his harmful arrow nt the head, 

Still check'd by human caution and strange dread. 

cxiir. 

One stops his eirs, — another close beholder 

Whispers unto the next his grave surmise ; 

This crouches down, — nnd just above his shoulder, 

A woman's pity saddens in her eyes, 

And iirompts her to befriend that lonely grief, 

With all sweet helps of sisterly relief. 

CXIV. 

And down the sunny beach she paces slowTy^ 
Willi many doubtful pauses by the uay ; 
Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy,— 
Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay 
Her hand upon that sea-maid's shoulder whit^ 
Which m.ikes her startle up in wild ufliight, 

cxv. 

And, like a seal, she leaijs into the wave 

That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream ; 

Anon the sea fills up the watery cave, 

And seals her exit with a foamy seam, — 

Lea', ing those baffl'x! gazers on the beach, 

Turning in uncouth wonder each to each. 

CXVI. 

Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge 
Wherever a brown weed falls through the foaiu : 
Some point to white eruptions of the surge ;— 
But she is vanish'd to her shady home, 
Under the deep, inscrutable, — and there 
Weeps m a midnight made of her own hair. 

CXVII. 

Now here the sighing winds, before unheard, 
Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow. 
Till all the surf.ice of the deep is stirr'd, 
Like to the panting grief it hides below ; 
And heaven is cover'd w ith a stormy rack, 
Soiling the waters with its inkv black. 



BERO AND LEANDER. 33^ 

CXVIII. 

The screamin?^ fowl resigns her finny prey, 
And labours shoreward with a bending wins'', 
Rowing against the wind her toilsome way : 
Mennwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling 
Their dewy frost still further on the stones, 
That answer to the wind with hollow groans. 

CXIX. 

And here and there a fisher's far-off bark 
Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail, 
Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, 
Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale 
And anxious mothers, that upturn their brows, 
Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows ; 
\ 

cxx. 

For that the horrid deep has no sure track 
To guide love safe into his homelv haven. 
And lo ! the storm i^rows blacker in its wrath, 
O'er the dark billow brooding; like a raven, 
Tliat bodes of death and widows' sorrowing, 
Under the dusky covert of his wing. 

CXXI. 

And so day ended. But no vesper spark 
Hunf^ forth its heavenly sign ; IJut sheets of flame 
Plny'd round the savage features of the dark, 
Making night horrible. That night, there came 
A weeping maiden to hii;h Seslos' steep, 
And tore her hair and gazed upon the deep. 

CXXII. 

And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch. 
Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd. 
That oft it would recoil, and b.isely scorch 
Tlie tender covert of her sheltering hand, 
Which \et, for love's dear sake, disdain'd retire, 
And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fire. 

CXXIII. 

For that was love's own sign and beacon guide 

Across the Hellesnont's wide weary space, 
Wherein he nightly sirugglcd with the tide. 
Look what a red it forges on her face, 
As if she blush'd at holiiing such a lijht. 
Even in the unseen presence of the niglit i 



pS HERO AND LEANDER, 

CXXIV. 

Whereas her tra,?ic cheek is truly pale, 

And colder than the rude and ruffian air 

That howls into her ear a horrid tale 

Of storm, and wreck, and uttermost despair, 

Saying, " Leander floats amid the surge. 

And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge.* 

CXXV. 

And hark ! — a grieving voice, trembling and faint^ 
Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea ; 
Like the sad music of a siren's plaint, 
But shriller than Leander's voice should be, 
Unless the winiry deatii had changed its tone,— 
Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan. 

CXXVI. ' 

For now, upon each brief and breathless pause, 
Made by the raging winds, it plainly rails, 
On Hero ! Hero ! — whereupon she draws 
Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals 
Her brave and constant spirit to recoil, 
However the wild billows toss and toiL 

CXXVII. 

**0h ! dost thou live under the deep, deep sea? 
I thought such love as thine could never die ; 
If thou hast gain'd an immortality 
From the kind pitying Sea-god, so will I ; 
And this false cruel tide, that used to sever 
Our hearts, shall be our common home lor ever i 

CXXVIII. 

"There we will sit and sport upon one billow, 
And sing our ocean ditties all the day, 
And lie together on the same green pillow, 
That curls above us with its dewy spray ; 
And ever in one presence live and dwell, 
^ Like two twin pearls within the selfsame sheU." J^ 

^ 0. 

"~-x^' CXXIX. 

One moment then upon the dizzy verge 

She stands, with face upturn'd against the sky; 

A moment more upon the foamy surge 

She gazes with a calm, despairing eye, 

Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath 

Which life endures when it confronts with death ;— » 



c 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR, 339 

cxxx. 

Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, 
Grasping her maiden robes, that Viinly kept 
Paftting abroad, Uke unavailing wings, 
To save her from her death. — I'he Sea-maid wept, 
And in a crystal cave her corse enshrined, — 
No meaner sepulchre should Hero had 1 

LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 

FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUi 



TO J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ. 

MT Dear Reynolds,— You will remember "Lycus." — It was 
written in the pleasant springtime of our friendship, and I am glad 
to maintain that association by connecting your name with the poem. 
It will gratify me to find that you regard it with the old partiality for 
the writings of each other which prevailed in those days. For my 
own sake, I must regret that your pen goes now into far other records 
than those which used to delight me. — Your true Friend and Brother, 

T. HouD. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Wafer- 
Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sor- 
ceress. Circe gives her an incantation to pronoimce, which should turn 
Lycus into a horse ; but the horrible effect of the charm causing her ta 
break off in the midst, he becomes a Centaur. 

Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell 

To wander, fore-doom'd, in that circle of hell 

Where Witchery works with her will like a god,— 

Works more than the wonders of time at a nod,— 

At a word, — at a touch, — at a flash of the eye, — 

But each form is a cheat, and each sound is a lie. 

Things born of a wish — to endure for a thought, 

Or last for long ages — to vanish to nouglit, 

Or put on new semblance? O Jove ! I had given 

The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven 

And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether 

They kept the world's birthday and brighten'd together ! 

For I loved them in terror, and constantly dreaded 

That the earth where I trod, and the cave where I bedded. 



J30 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR, 

The face I might dote on, should live out the lease 

Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease : 

\nd I gave me to slambt^r as if from one dream 

To another — each horrid — and drank of the stream 

Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quaff'd 

Swift poison, and never should breathe from the drnight,— ■ 

Such drink as her own mon irch husband drnin'd up 

When he pledj^ed her. and Fate closed his eyes in the cup. 

And I pluck'd of the fruit with held breath, and a fear 

Th.it the branch would stirt b^ck and scream out in my ear J 

For once, at my supni-ring, I pluck'd in the dusk 

An npple, juice-gushing and fragrant of mu dc ; 

But by daylight my finders were crimson'd with gore, 

And the half-eaten fragment was flesh at the core : _^ 

And once — only once — for the love of its blush, 

I broke a bloom bough, but there came such a gush 

On my hand, that it fainted ;iway in weak fright. 

While the leaf-hidden woodpecker shriek'd at the sight; 

And oh ! such an a;;ony thrill'd in that note, 

That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat, 

As it long'd to be fr-e of a body whose hand 

Was doom'd to work torments a Fury had plann'd 1 

There I stood without stir, yet how willing to llee, 
As if rooted and horror-turn'd into a tree, — 
Oh, for innocent dtath ! — and to suddenly win it, 
I drink of the stream, but no poison was in it ; 
I pkmged in its waters, but ere I could sink. 
Some invisible fate pull'd me back to the brink ; 
I sprang from the rock, from its pinnacle height, 
But fell on the grass with a grasshopper's flight ; 
I ran at my fears — they were fears and no more, 
For the bear would not m ingle my limbs, nor the boar, 
But mi.an'd, — all their brutalized flesh could not smother 
The horrible truth — we were kin to each other ! 

They were mournfully gentle, and group'd for relief. 
All foes in their skin, but all friends in their grief : 
The leopard was there,— biby-mild in its feature ; 
And the tiger, black barr'd, with the gaze of a creature 
That knew gentle pity ; the bnstle-back'd boar 
His innocent tusks stain'd with mulberry gore ; 
And the laughing hyena — but laughing no more ; 
And the snake, not with magical orbs to devise 
Strange death, but with woman's attraction of eyes ; 
The tall ugly 9pe, that still bore a dim shine 
Through his hairy echpse of a manhood divine ; 
And the elephant stately, with more than its reason, 
How thoughtful in sadness ! but this is no season 
To reckon them up from the lag-bellied toad 
To the mammoth, whose sobs sliook his pondt rous load. 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 33I 

There were woes of all shapes, wretched forms when I came^ 
That hung down their heads with a human-like shame ; 
The eleph mt hid in the boughs, and the be/ir 
Shed over his eyes the d.irk veil'of his liair ; 
And the womanly soul, turning sick with disgust, 
Tried to vomit herself from her serpentine crust ; 
While all groan'd their groans in 10 one at their lot, 
As I brought them the image of what they were not. 

Then rose a wild sound of the human voice choking 
Throui;h vile brutal organs — low trr-mulous croaking. 
Cries svsailow'd abraptly^deep nnimal tones, 
Attuned to strange passion, and full-utter'd groans ; 
All shuddering weaker, till hush'd in a pause 
Of tongues in mute motion and wide-yc^arning jaws ; 
And I guess'd that those horrors were meant to tell o'er 
The tnle of their wues ; but the silence told more 
That writhed on their tongues ; and I knelt on the sod, 
And pray'd with my voice to the cloud-stirring God, 
For the snd congreg ition of supplicants there, 
That upturn'd to His heaven brute faces of prayer ; 
And I Ceased, and they utter'd a mt^aning so deep, 
That I wept for my heart-ease, — but they could not weep, 
And gazed with red eyeballs, all wisttully dry, 
At the comfort of tears in a stag's human eye. 
Then I motion'd them round, and, to soothe their distress, 
I caress'd, and they bent them to meet my caress. 
Their necks to my arm, and their heads to my palm, 
And with poor grateful eyes suffer'd meekly and calm 
Those tokens of kindness, withheld by hard fate 
From returns that might chill the warm pity to hate ; 
So they passively bow'd — save the ser[ient, that leapt 
To my breast like a sister, and prcssinglv crept 
In embrace of my neck, and with close kisses blister'd 
My lips in rash love, — then drew backward, and glister'd 
Her eyes in my face, and loud hissing affright, 
Dropt down, and swift started away from my sight ! 

This sorrow was theirs, but thrice wretched my lot, 
Turnd brute in my soul, thou-h my boUy was not 
When I fled from the surrow of womanly faces, 
Tl-at shrouded their woe in the shade of lone places. 
And dash'ci off bright tears till their fingers were wet, 
And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet : 
But I fled — though they siretch'd out their hands, all entangled 
With hair, and blood-stain'd of the breasts they had mangled,— • 
Tho^igh they cnird— and perchance but to ask, had I seen 
'Jlieir loves, or to tell the vile wrongs th^t had been : 
Bi'l I stay'd not to hear, L. st the story should hold 
?'>jaic hell-form of words, some enchantment, once told. 



|3t LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 

Might translate me in flesh to a brute : and I dre?''ed 
To gaze on their charms, lest my faith should be wedded 
With some pity, — and love in that pity perch, mce — 
To a thin;^ not all lovely ; for once at a glance 
Methought, where one sat, I descried a bright wonder 
That flow'd like a long silver rivulet under 
The long fenny s^rass, with so lovely a breast, 
Could it be a snake-tail made the charm of the rest ? 

So I roam'd in that circle of horrors, and Fear 
Walk'd with me by hills and in valleys, and near 
Cluster'd trees for their t;luom — not to shelter from heat- 
But lest a brute shadow should grow at my feet ; 
And besides that full olt in the sunshiny place 
Dark shadows would gather like clouds on its face^ 
In the horrible likeness of demons (that tione 
Could see, like invisible flames in the sun) ; 
But grew to one monster that seized on the light. 
Like the dragon that strangles the moon in the night; 
Fierce sphinxes, long serpents, and asps of the Scuth 
Wild birds of huge beak, and all horrors that drouth 
Engenders of slime in the land of the pest, 
Vile shapes without shape, and foul bats of the West, 
Bringing Night on their wings ; and the bodies whereil 
Great Brahma imprisons the spirits of sin. 
Many-handed, that blent in one phantom of fight, 
Like a Titan, and threalfully warr'd with the li.;lit : 
I h:ive heard the wild slinek that gave signal to close, . 
When they rush'd on that shadowy Python of foes, 
Th 't met with sharp beaks and wide gaping of jaws, 
With flappings of wings, and fierce grasping oi claws, 
And whirls of long tails : — I have seen the quick flutter 
Of fragments dissever'd — and necks stretch'd to utter 
Long screamings of pain, — the swift motion of blows, 
And wresthng of arms — to the flight at the close, 
When the dust of the earth startled upward in rings, 
And flew on the whirlwind that follow'd their wings. 

Thus they fled^not forgotten — but often to grow 
Like fears in my eyes, when I walk'd to and fro 
In the shadows, and felt fn>m some beings unseen 
The warm touch of kisses, but clean or unclean 
I knew not, nor whether the love I had won 
Was of heaven or hell — till one day in the sun, 
In its very noon-blaze, I could fancy a thing 
Of beauty, but fainl as the cloud-mirrors fling 
On the gaze of the shepherd that watches the sky, 
Half-seen and half-dre.im'd in the soul of his eye. 
And when in my musings I gazed on the stream, 
In motionless trances of thought, there would seem 



ZYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 333 

A face like that face, looking upwards through mine ; 
With its eyes full of love, and the dim-drowned shine 
Of limbs and fair garments, like clouds in that blue 
Serene : — there I stood for long hours but to view 
Those fond earnest eyes that were ever uplifted 
Towards me, and wink'd as the water- weed drifted 
Between ; but the fish knew that presence, and plied 
Their long curvy tails, and swift darted aside. 

There I gazed for lost time, and forgot all the things 
That once had been wonders — the fishes with wings, 
And the glimmer of magnified eyes that look'd up 
From the glooms of the bottom like pearls in a cup, 
And the huge endless serpent of silvery gleam, 
Slow winding along like a tide in the stream. 
Some maid of the waters, some Naiad, meihought, 
Held me dear in the pearl of her eye — and I brought 
My wish to that fancy j and often I dash'd 
My limbs in the water, and suddenly splash'd 
The cool drops around me, yet clung to the brink, 
Chill'd by wattry fears, how that Beauty might sink 
With my life in her arms to her garden, and bind me 
With its long tangled grasses, or cruelly wind me 
In some eddy, to hum out my life in her ear, 
Like a spider-caught bee, — and in aid of that fear 
Came the tardy remembrance — O falsest of men ! 
Why was not that beauty remember'd till then ? 
My love, my safe love, whose glad life would have run 
Into mine — like a drop — that our fate might be one, 
That now, even now,— maybe, — clasp'd in a dream, 
That form which I gave to some jilt of the stream. 
And gazed with fond eyes that her tears tried to smother 
On a mock of those eyes that I gave to another ! 

Then I rose from the stream, but the eyes of my mind, 
Still full of the tempter, kept gazing behind 
On her crystalline face, while I painfully leapt 
To the bank, and shook off the curst waters, and wept 
With my brow in the reeds ; and the reeds to my ear 
Bow'd, bent by no wind, and in whispers of fear. 
Growing small with large secrets, foretold me of one 
That loved me, — but, oh ! to fly from her, and shun 
Her love like a pest — though her love was as true 
To mine as her stream to the heavenly blue ; 
For why should I love her with love that would bring 
All misfortune, like Hate, on so joyous a thing ? 
Because of her rival, — even Her whose witch-face 
I had slighted, and therefore was doom'd in that place 
To roam, and had roam'd, where all horrors grew rank, 
Nine days ere I wept with my brow on that bank ; 



334 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 

Her name be not namtd, but her spite would not fajl 
To our love like a blight ; and they told me the ale 
Of Scylla and Picus, imprison'd to speak 
His shriil-sci earning woe through a woodpecker's beaiki 

Then they ceased — I hnd heard as the voice of my star 

That told me the truth of my fortunes — thus far 

I h id read of my sorrow, and lay in tne hush 

Of deep meditation, — \\h;n lo ! a light crush 

Of the reeds, and I turn'd and look'd round in the night 

Of new sunshine, and saw, as I sipn'd of the li ;ht 

Narrow-winking, the realised nymph of the stream, 

Rising up from the wave with the bend and the glenm 

Of a fountain, and o'er her white arms she kept throwing 

Bright torrents of hair, that went flowing and flowing 

In falls to her feet, and the blue waters rolTd 

Down her limbs like a garment, in m my a fold, 

Sun-spangled, gold-broider'd, and fled far behind, 

Like an infinite train. So she came and reclined 

In the reeds, and I hunger'd to see her unseal 

The buds of her eves, that would ope and reveal 

The blue that was in them ; and they oped, and she ra sed 

Two orbs of pure crystal, and timidly gazed 

With her eyes on my eyes ; but their colour and shinf 

W.is of ih;it which they look'd on, and mostly of mine — 

For she loved me, — except when she blush'd, and the) sanl^ 

Sh;ime-humbled, to number the stones on the bnnk, 

Or her play-idle fin;.;ers, while lisping she told me 

How she put on her veil, nnd, in love to behold me, 

Would win:4 throui;h the sun till she fainted away 

Like a mist, and then ilew to her waters and lay 

In love-patience long hours, and sore dazzled her eyes 

In watching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. 

But now they were heal'd. — Oh, my heart, it still dances 

When I think of the charm of her changeable glances, 

And my imnge how small when it sank in the deep 

Of her eyes where her soul was, — Alas ! now they weep, 

And none knoweth where. In what stream do her eyes 

Shed invisible tears ? Who beholds where her sighs 

Flow in eddies, or sees the ascent of the leaf 

She has pluck'd with her tresses? Who listens her giicl 

Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet 

Grow emphatic among the loose pebbles, and b^at 

Them together? Ah ! surely hi r flowers float adown 

To the sea unaccepted, and little ones drown 

For need of her mercy, — even he who^^e twin-brother 

Will miss him for ever ; and the sorrowful mother 

Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss 

And chng to, all dripping and cold as it is, 

Because that soft pity is lost in hard pain ! 

We loved, — how we loved ! — lor I thought not agasa 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 33$ 

Of ihe woes that were whisper'd like fears in that place 

If I gave me to beauty. Her face was the f.iCe 

Far away, and her c)es were the eyes that were drown'd 

For my absence, — her arms .were the arms that soui^hl round 

And clasp'd me to nou-^ht ; for I gazed and became 

Only true to my falsithood, and had but one name 

For two Ic es, and call'd ever on yEgle, sweet maid 

Of the sky-loving waters, — and was not afraid 

Of the sij^ht of her skin ; — for it never could be 

Her beauty and love were misfortunes to me ! 

Thus our bliss had endured for a time-shorten'd space, 
Like a day made of three, and the smile of her face 
Had been with me for joy, — when she told me indeed 
Her love was self-task'd ^\ith a work that would need 
Some short hours, for in truth 'twas the veriest pity 
Our love should not last, and then sang me a ditty, 
Of one with warm lips that should love her, and love her., 
When suns were burnt dim and long ages past over. 
So she fled with her voice, and I patiently nested 
My limbs in the reeds, in still quiet, and rested 
Till my thoughts grew extinct, and I sank in a sleep 
Of dreams, — but their meaning was hidden too deep 
To be read what their woe was ; — but still it was woe 
That was writ on all faces that swam to and fro 
In that river of night ; — and the gaze of their eyes 
Was sad, — and the bend of their brows, — and their cries 
Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears 
Travell'd down my cold cheeks, and I shook till my fears 
Awai<ed me, and lo ! I was couch'd in a bower. 
The growth of long summers rear'd up in an hour ! 
Then I said, in the fear of my dream, I will fly 
From this magic, but could not, because that my eye 
Grew love-idle among the ricli blooms ; and the earth 
Held me down with its coolness of touch, and the mirth 
Of some bird was above me, — who, even m fear. 
Would startle the thrush ? and methought there drew neat 
A form as of ^gle. — but it was not the face 
Hope made, and I knew the Witch-Queen of that place, 
Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a death 
Which I fear'd, and yet fled not, for want of my breath. 
There was thought in her face, and her eyes were not raised 
From the grass at her foot, but 1 saw, as I gazed, 
Her spite — and her countenance ch.mged with her mind 
As she plann'd how to thrall me with beauty, and bind 
My soul to her charms, — and her long tresses play'd 
From shade into shine and from shine into shade. 
Like a day in mid-autumn,— first fair, oh, how fair ! 
With long snaky locks of the adder-black hair 
That clung round her neck, — those dark locks that I prixe^ 
For the sake of a maid that once loved me with eyes 



336 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR, 

Of that fathomless hue, — but they changed as they roffd, 

And bri:-;hten'd, and suddenly blazed into gold 

That she comb'd into flames, and the locks that fell down 

Turn'd dark as thev fell, but I slii;iited their brown, 

Nor loved, till I saw the light ringlets shed wild. 

That innocence wears when she is but a child ; 

And her eyes, — oh, I ne'er had been witch'd with their shin^ 

Had they been any other, my Mg\Q, than thine ! 



Then I gave me to magic, and gazed till I madden'd 
In the full of their li:4ht. — but I sadden'd and sadden'd 
The deeper I look'd, — till I sank on the snow 
Of her bosom, a thing made of terror and woe, 
And answer d its throb with the shudder of fears, 
And hid my cold eyes from her eyes with my tears, 
And strain'd her white arms with the still languid weight 
Of a fainting distress. There she sat like the Fate 
That is nurse unto Death, and bent over in shame 
To hide me from her — the true /Egle — that came 
With the words on her lips the false witch had foregiven 
To make me immortal — for now I was even 
At the portah of Death, who but waited the hush 
Of world-sounds in my ear to cry welccmie, and rush 
With my soul to the banks of his black-flowing river. 
Oh, would it had flown from my body for ever, 
Ere I listen'd those words, when I felt, with a start, 
The life-blood rush back in one throb to my heart, 
And saw tlie pale lips where the rest of that spell 
Had perish'd in horror — and heard the farewell 
Of that voice that was drown'd in the dash of the stream I 
How fain had I follow'd, and plunged with that scream 
Into death, but my being indignantly lagg'd 
Through the brutalized flesh that I painfully dragg'd 
Behind me : — " O Circe ! O mother of Spite ! 
Speak the last of that curse ! and imprison me quite 
In the husk of a brute, — that no pity may name 
The man that I was,— that no kindred may claim 
The monster I am ! Let me utterly be 
Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonour with me 
Uninscribed !" — But she listen'd my prayer, that was prai* 
To her m.ilice, with smiles, and advised me to gaze 
On the river for love, — and perchance she would make 
In pitv a maid without eyes for my sake, 
And she left me like Scorn. Then I ask'd of the wave, 
What monster I was, and it tremi)led and gave 
The true shape of my grief, and I turn'd with my face 
From all waters for ever, and fled through that place, 
'lid with horror more strong than all magic 1 piss'd 
Its bounds, and the world was before me at last. 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 3|f 

There I wander'd in sorrow, and shunn'd the abodes 
Of men, that stood up in the likeness of gods> 
But I saw from afar the warm shine of the sun 
On their cities, where man was a million, not one ; 
And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending. 
That show'd where the hearts of the many were blending, 
And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came 
From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one fame 
As a chorus of man, — and they stream'd from the gates 
Like a dusky libation pour'd out to the Fates. 
But at times there were gentler processions of peace 
That I watch'd with my soul in my eyes till their cease. 
There were women ! there men ! but to me, a third sex, 
I saw them all dots — yet I loved them as specks : 
And oft, to assuage a sad yearning of eyes, 
I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise 
Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten 
By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten I 
Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother 
Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother 
Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep 
Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep 
In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks 
That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks; 
But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never 
I return'd to a s[30t I had startled for ever, 
Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none^ 
Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son ? 

•For the haunters of fields they all shxmn'd me by flight. 
The men in their horror, the women in fright ; 
None ever remain'd save a child once that sported 
Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted 
The breeze ; and beside him a speckled snake lay 
Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away 
From the flower at his finger ; he rose and drew near 
Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear, 
But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright 
To grow to large manhood of merciful might. 
He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel 
The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel, 
And question'd my face with wide eyes ; but when under 
My lids he saw tears, — for I wept at his wonder, — 
He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then, 
That the once love of women, the friendship of men 
In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss 
On my heart in its desolate day such as this ! 
And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent. 
And lifted him up in my arms with intent 
To kiss him, — but he, cruel-kindly, alas f 
Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass ! 

t 



^ THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT, 

Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled 
The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head, 
That dissevered my ear, — but I felt not, whose fate 
Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate t 

Thus I wandered, companion'd of grief and forlorn, 
Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born, 
But what was that land with its love, where my home 
Was self-shut against me ; for why should I come 
Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father, 
With a Wight to the last of his sight ? — let him rathef 
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn 
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn 
To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how 
Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now 
Like gods to my humbled estate? — or how bear 
The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care 
Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came 
Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same 
As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream 
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream 
That made wretches of many, as she roU'd her wild eyes 
Against heaven, and so vanish'd. — The gentle and wise 
Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill 
In the mirth of mankind, where they mingle them stilL 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT, 



Alas ! that breathing Vanity should go 

Where Pride is buried, — like its very ghosty 

Uprisen from the naked bones below, 
In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast 

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro, 
Shedding its chilling superstition most 

On young and ignorant natures — as it wont 

To haunt the peaceful churchyard oi Bedfont ! 



Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, 
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green 

Shining, far distant, in the summer air 

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between 

Their downy plumes, — sailing as if they were 
Two far-off ships, — until they brush between 

The churchvard's himibie wails, and watch and wait 

On either side of the wide open'd gate. 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT, 339 



III. 

And there they stand — with haughty necks before 

God's holy house, that points towards the skies- 
Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, 

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes : 
And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, 

Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, 
With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace, 
Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ;-■ 

IV. 

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, 
May wear the happiness of rich attire ; 

And those two sisters, in their silly pride, 

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire 

Of lifeless diamonds ; — and for health denied, — 
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire 

Their languid cheeks — and flourish in a glorjr 

That has no life in life, nor after-story. 

V. 

The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair 
,^~ In meekest censuring, and turns his eye 
Earthward in grief and heavenward in prayer, 

And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. 
Good-hearted man ! what sullen soul would wear 

Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly 
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise 
Of one so grey in goodness and in days ? 

VI. 

Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame 
Of this ungodly shine of human pride. 

And sadly blends his reverence and blame 
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride 

Impatient : — many a red-hooded dame 

Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside 

From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again 

That Heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. 

VII. 

** I have a lily in the bloom at home," 

Quoth one, " and by the blessed Sabbath-day 
I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come 

And read a lesson upon vain array ; — 
And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some 

Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes, and say- 
Making my reverence, — ' Ladies, an you please, 
King Solomon's not half so fine as these.' " 



340 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT, 

VIII. 

Then her meek partner, who has nearly run 

His earthly course, — " Nay, Goody, let your text 

Grow in the garden. — We have only one — 

Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next? 

Summer will come again, and summer sun, 
And lilies too, — but I were sorely vext 

To mar my garden, and cut short the blow 

Of the last lily I may live to grow." 



" The last ! " quoth she, " and though the last it were— 
Lo ! those two wantons, where they stand so proud. 

With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair, 
And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd 

And curtsey'd to ! — Last Sabbath, after prayer, 
1 heard the little Tomkins ask aloud 

If they were angels — but I made him know 

God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow I * 



So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk 

That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng. 

Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk, 

And anxious pedagogue that chasttns wrong, 

And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk. 
And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along. 

And gentle peasant, clad in buff and green, 

Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene ; 

XI. 

And blushing maiden — modestly array'd 

In spotless white, — still conscious of the glass; 

And she, the lonely widow, that hath made 
A sable covenant with grief, — alas ! 

She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade. 
While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass. 

Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress 

Her boy, — so rosy ! — and so fatherless ! 

XII. 

Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near 
The fair white temple, to the timely call 

Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear. 

Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl 

Fade into dusk in the dim atmosphere 

Of the low porch, and Heaven has won them all,— 
Saving (hose two, that turn aside and pass, 

In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass. 



I 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 34I 

XIII. 

Ah me ! to see their silken manors trail'd 

In purple luxuries — with restless gold, — 
Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd 

In blotted black, — over the heapy mould 
Panting wave- wantonly ! They never quail'd 

How the warm vanity abused the cold ; 
Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone 
Sadly uplooking through transparent stone : 

XIV. 

But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, 
Shocking the awful presence of the dead ; 

Where gracious natures would their eyes benight,. 
Nor wear their being with a lip too red, 

Nor move too rudely m the summer bright 
Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, 

Meting it into steps, with inward breath, 

In very pity to bereaved death. 

XV. 

Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resign 

To solemn prayer, and the loud-chaunted hymn, — 

With glowing picturings of joys divine 

Painting the misllight where the roof is dim ; 

But youth looks upward to the window shine, 
Warming with rose and purple and the swim 

Of gold, as if thought tinted by the stains 

Of gorgeous light through many-colour'd panes ; 

XVI. 

Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath 
Enrobed His angels, — and with absent eyes 

Hearing of Heaven, and its directed path. 

Thoughtful of slippers, — and the glorious skies 

Clouding with satin, — till the preacher's wrath 
Consumes his pity, and he glows, and cries 

With a deep voice that trembles in its mij^ht, 

And earnest eyes grown eloquent in light : 

XVII. 

* Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to look 

On very beauty, and the heart embrace 
True loveliness, and from this holy book 

Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace 
Of love indeed ! Oh, that the young soul took 

Its virgm passion from the glorious face 
Of fair religion, and address'd its strife, 
To win the riches of eternal life I 



S49 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT, 

XVIII. 

" Doth the vain heart love glory that is none, 

And the poor excellence of vain attire ? 
Oh, go and drown your eyes against the sun, 

The visible ruler of the starry quire, 
Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, 

Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire ; 
And the faint soul down darkens into night, 
And dies a burning martyrdom to light. 

XIX. 

** Oh, go and gaze, — when the low winds of even 
Breathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nod 

Their gold-crown'd heads ; and the rich blooms of heaveOi 
Sun-ripen'd, give their blushes up to God ; 

And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riven 
By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod 

Of heavenly Moses, — that your thirsty sense 

May quench its longings of magnificence ! 

XX. 

"Yet suns shall perish — stars shall fade away- 
Day into darkness — darkness into death — 

Death into silence ; the warm light of day, 

The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath 

Of even — all shall wither and decay, 

Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath 

The touch of morn — or bubbles of rich dyes, 

That break and vanish in the aching eyes." 

XXL 

They hear, soul-blushing, and, repentant, shed 

Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and poor 

Their sin to earth, — and with low drooping head 
Receive the solemn blessing, and implore 

Its grace — then soberly, with chasten'd tread, 
They meekly press towards the gusty door, 

With humbled eyes, that go to graze upon 

The lowly grass — like him of Babylon. 

XXII. 

The lowly grass ! — Oh, water-constant mind I 
Fast-ebbing hol.iness ! — soon-fading grace 

Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind 

Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face 

For ever ! — How they lift their eyes to find 
Old vanities. — Pride wins the very place 

Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now 

With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow 1 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BED FONT. 343 



XXIII. 

And lo ! with eager looks they seek the way 

Of old temptation at the lowly gate ; 
To feast on feathers, and on vain array, 

And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state 
Of jewel-sprinkled locks. — But where are they, 

The graceless haughty ones that used to wait 
With lofty neck, and nods, and stitifen'd eye ? — 
None challenge the old homage bending by. 

XXIV. 

In vain they look for the ungracious bloom 
Of rich apparel where it glow'd before, — 

For Vanity has faded all to gloom, 

And lofty Pride has stiffened to the core, 

For impious Life to tremble at its doom, — 
Set for a warning token evermore. 

Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise 

Shall gaze with lifted hands and wondering eyes. 

XXV. 

The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn, 
But shakes not sorrow under his grey hair ; 

The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn, 
Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair ; — 

And ancient lips, that puckered up in scorn. 
Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer; 

And in the garden-plot, from day to day, 

The lily blooms its long white life away. 

XXVI. 

And where two haughty maidens used to be, 

In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, 

Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, 
Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod ; 

There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see 

Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod 

Marking the spot, still tarries to declare 

How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. 



MINOR POEMS 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEWs 

Oh, when I was a tiny boy. 

My days and nights were full of joy, 

My mates were blithe and kind ! — 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the teardrop from my eye, 

To cast a look behind ! ^il?. 

A hoop was an eternal round 

Of pleasure. In those days I found 

A top a joyous thing ; — 
But now those past delights I drop, 
My head, alas ! is all my top, 

And careful thoughts the string ! 

My marbles — once my bag was stored,— 
Now I must play with Elgin's lord, 

With Theseus for a taw ! 
My playful horse has slipt his string, 
Forgotten all his capermg, .^ 

Ajid harness'd to the law ! 

My kite — how fast and far it flew I 
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 

My pleasure from the sky ! 
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious theme*^ 
The tasks I wrote — mjr present dreams 

Will never soar so high ! 

My joys are wingless all and dead ; 
My dumps are made of more than lead ; 

My flights soon find a fall ; 
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
Joy never cometh with a hoop, 

And seldom with a call ! 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 34S 

My football's laid upon the shelf : * 

I am a shuttlecock myself • 

The world knocks to and fro ;— 
My archery is all unlearn'd, 
And grief a'^ainst myself has turn'd 

My arrows and my bow ! 

No more in noontide sun I bask ; 
My authorship's an endless task, 

My head's ne'er out of school : 
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, 
I have too many foes to fight, 

And friends grown strangely cool i 

The very chum that shared my cake 
Holds out so cold a hand to shake, 

It makes me shrink and sigh : — 
On this I will not dwell and hang, 
The changeling would not feel a pang 

Though these should meet his eye I 

No skies so blue or so serene 

As then ; — no leaves look half so green 

As clothed the playground tree ! 
All things I loved are alter'd so, 
Nor does it ease my heart to know 

That change resides in me ! 

Oh, for the garb that mark'd the boy, 
The trousers made of corduroy. 

Well ink'd with black and red ; 
The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill — 
It only let the sunshine still 

Repose upon my head ! 

Oh, for the riband round the neck ! 
The careless do;4"s-ears apt to deck 

My book and collar both ! 
How can this formal man be styled 
Merely an Alexandrine child, 

A boy of larger growth ? 

Oh, for that small, small beer anew f 

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-Dloe 

That washed my sweet meals down ; 
The master even ! — and that small Turk 
That fagg'd me ! — worse is now my work — 

A fag for all the town ! 



346 FAIR INES. 

Oh, for the lessons learn'd by Heart ! 
* Ay, though the very birch's smart 

Should mark those hours again ; 
I'd " kiss the rod," and be resign'd 
Beneath the stroke, and even find 

Some sugar in the cane ! 

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed 1 
The Fairy Tales in school-time read, 

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! 
The angel form that always walk'd 
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd 

Exactly like Miss Brown ! 

The omne bene — Christmas come ! 
The prize of merit, won for home — 

Merit had prizes then ! 
But now I write for days and days, 
For fame — a deal of empty praise, 

Without the silver pen 1 ^ 

Then home, sweet home ! the crowded coach- 
The joyous shout — ihe loud approach — 

The winding horns like rams' ! 
The meeting sweet that made me thrill, 
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, 

No " satis " to the " jams ! " — 

When that I was a tiny boy 

My days and nights were full of joy, 

My mates were blithe and kind ! 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the teardrop from my eye, 

To cast a look behind 1 



\L ^ C^ . - /-v 



FAIR INES. 



I. 



Oh, saw ye not fair Ines ? 
She's gone into the West, 
To dazzle when the sun is down, 

And rob the world of rest : 
She took our daylight with her, 
The smiles that we love best, 
With morning blushes on her cheek, 
And pearls upon her breast. 



FAIR INES. 34» 



II. 



Oh, turn again, fair Ines, 

Before the fall of night, 

For fear the Moon should shine alone, 

And stars unrivall'd bright ; 

And blessed will the lover be 

That walks beneath their light, 

And breathes the love against thy cheek 

I dare not even write ! 

III. 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier. 

Who rode so gaily by thy side, 

And whisper'd thee so near ! 

Were there no bonny dames at home^ 

Or no true lovers here, 

That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear ? 

IV. 

I saw thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore, 

With bands of noble gentlemen. 

And banners waved before ; 

And gentle youth and maidens gay. 

And snowy plumes they wore ; — 

It would hive been a beauteous dream, 

—If it had been no more ! 

V. 

Alas, alas ! fair Ines, 

She went away with song, 

With Music waiting on her steps, 

And shouiings of the throng ; 

But some were sad, and felt no mirth. 

But only Music's wrong, 

In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell 

To her you've loved so long ! 

VI. 

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines I 

That vessel never bore 

So fair a lady on its deck, 

Nor danced so light before, — 

Alas for pleasure on the sea, 

And sorrow on the shore ! 

The smile that blest one lover's heart 

Has broken many more ! 



348 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER, 

Summer is gone on swallows' wings, 

And Earth hns buried all her ilowers : 

No more the Inrk, the linnet sings, 

But Silence sits in faded bowers. 

There is a shadow on the plain 

Of Winter ere he comes again, — 

There is in woods a solemn sound 

Of hollow warnings whisper'd round, 

As Echo in her deep recess 

For once had turn'd a j.irophetess. 

Shuddering Autumn stops to list, 

And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, 

With clouded face, and hazel eyes 

That quench themselves, and hide in mistt 

Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright { 
Its glorious days of golden light 
Are gone — the mimic suns that quiver, 
Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. 
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze 
That spoke in music to the trees ; 
Gone for damp and chilly breath. 
As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, 
Or newly from the lungs of Death. 
Gone its virgin roses' blushes. 
Warm as when Aurora rushes 
Fri shly from the god's embrace. 
With all her shame upon her face. 
Old Time hath laid them in the mould { 
Sure he is blind as well as old. 
Whose hand relentless never spares, 
Youul; cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs! 
Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now 
From where so blushing-blest they tarried 
Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough, 
Gone ; for Day and Night are married. 
A.'l the light of love is fled : — 
Ai.is ! that negro breasts should hide 
The lips that were so rosy red. 
At morning and at eventide ! 

Delightful Summer ! then adieu 
Till thou shalt visit us anew : 
But who without regretful sigh 
Can say, adieu, and see thee fly? 
Not he that e'er hath felt thy power, 
His joy expanding like a flower 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 345 

That cometh after rain and snow, 

Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow :— 

Not he that fled from Babel-sirife 

To the green sabbath-land ot life, 

To dodge dull Care 'mid clusteVd trees, 

And cool his forehead in the breeze, — 

Whose spirit, weary-worn, perchance, 

Shook from its wings a weight of grief, 

And perch'd upon an aspen leaf, 

For every breath to make it dance. 

Farewell ! — on wings of sombre stain, 
That blacken in the last blue skies, 
Thou fliest ; but thou wilt come again 
On the gay wings of butterflies. 
Spring at thy approach will sprout 
Her new Corinthian beauties out, 
Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words 
Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds ; 
Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, 
And April smiles to sunny hours. 
Bright days shall be, and gentle nights 
Full of soft breath and echo-lights. 
As if the god of sun-time kept 
His eyes hnlf-open while he slept. 
Roses shall be where roses were, 
Not shadows, but reality ; 
As if they never perish'd there, 
But slept in immortality : 
Nature shall thrill with new delight, 
And Time's relumined river run 
Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, 
As if its source were in the sun ! 

But say, hath Winter then no charms? 
Is there no joy, no gladness \\ arms 
His aged heart? no happy wiles 
To cheat the hoary one to smilesj" 
Onward he comes — the cruel North 
Pours his furious whirlwmd forth 
Before him — and we breathe the breath 
Of famish'd bears that howl to death. 
Onward he comes from rocks that blanch 
O'er solid streams that never flow, 
His tears all ice, his locks all snow. 
Just crept from some huge avalanche — 
A thing half-breathing and half-warm. 
As if one spark began to glow 
Within some statue's marble form, 
Or pilgrim stiffen'd in the storm. 



350 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMME.% 

Oh, will not Mirth's light arrows fail 
To pierce that frozen coat of mail ? 
Oh, will not Joy but strive in vain 
To light up those glazed eyes again ? 

No ! take him in, and blnze the oak. 
And pour the wine, and warm the ale ; 
His sides shall shake to many a joke, 
His tongue shall thaw in many a tale, 
His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, 
And even his palsy charm'd away. 
What heeds he then the boisterous shout 
Of angry winds that scold without, 
Like shrewish wives at tavern door ? 
What heeds he then the wild uproar 
Of billows bursting on the shore ? 
In dashing waves, in howling breeze, 
There is a music that can charm him ; 
When safe and shelter'd, and at ease, 
He hears the storm that cannot harm him» 

But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din 
Of httle hearts that laugh within. 
Oh, take him where the youngsters play, 
And he will grow as young as they ! 
They come ! they come ! each blue-eyed Sport, 
The Twelfth-Night King and all his court— 
*Tis Mirth fresh crown'd with mistletoe I 
Music with her merry fiddles, 
Joy " on light fantastic toe," 
Wit with all his jests and riddles, 
Singing and dancing as they go, 
And Love, young Love, among the rest, , ., 
A welcome — nor unbidden guest. 

But still for Summer dost thou grieve? 
Then read our Poets — they shall weave 
A garden of green fancies still. 
Where tby wish may rove at wilL 
They have kept for after treats 
The essences of summer sweets, 
And echoes of its songs that wind 
In endless music through the mind : 
They have stamp'd in visible traces 
The " thoughts that breathe," in words that shine—* 
The flights of soul in sunny places — 
To greet and company with thine. 
These shall wing thee on to flowers — 
The past or future, that shall seem 
All the brighter in thy dream 
For blowing in such desert hours. 



ODE . AUTUMy, 35« 

The summer never shines so bright 

As thought of in a winter's ni<;ht ; 

Andthe sweetest, loveliest rose 

Is in the bud before it blows. 

The dear one of the lover's heart ' 

Is painted to his longing eyes 

In charms she ne'er can realise — 

But when she turns again to part. 

Dream thou then, and bind thy brow 

With wreath of fancy roses now, 

And drink of Summer in the cup 

Where the Muse hath mix'd it up ; 

The "dance, and song, and sunburnt mirth,"" 

With the warm nectar of the earth ; 

Drink ! 'twill glow in every vein, 

And thou shalt dream the winter through : 

Then waken to the sun again, 

And find thy Summer Vision true 1 



SONG. 

FOR MUSIC. 

A LAKE and a fairy boat 

To sail in the moonlight clear,— 

And merrily we would float 

From the dragons that watch us here 1 

Thy gown should be snow-white silk, 
And strings of orient pearls, 
Like gossamers dipp'd in milk, 
Should twine with thy raven curls ! 

Red rubies should deck thy hands, 
And diamonds should be thy dower- 
But fairies have broke their wands, 
And wishing has lost its power 1 



OBE: 

AUTUMN. 
I. 

I SAW old Autumn in the misty mom 

Stand shadowless like Silence, listening 
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing 
Into his hollow ear from woods loriorn, 

• Keats, " Ode to a Grecian Urn." 



ODE: AUTUMN. 

Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; — 
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 
With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 
Pearling his coronet of golden corn. 

II. 

Where are the songs of Summer ? — 'With the sul^ 

Oping the dusky eyelids of the South, 

Till shade and silence waken up as one, 

And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 

Where are the merry birds ? — Away, away, 

On panting wings through the inclement skies, 

Lest owls should prey 

Undazzled at noonday. 
And tear with horny beak their lustro'S eyes. 

III. 

Where Jlre the blooms of Summer? — In the West, 
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. 
When the mild eve by sudden night is prest 
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flowers, 

To a most gloomy breast. 
Where is the pride of Summer, — the ?reen prime — 
The many, many leaves all twinkling r — Three 
On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked lime 
Trembling, — and one upon the old oak-tree 1 

Where is the Dryad's immortality ? — ■ 
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, 
Or wearing the Xon-s, gloomy Winter through 

In the smooth hully's green eternity. 



The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, 
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain 

And honey-bees have stored 
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells ; 
The swallows all have wing'd across the main ; 
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, 

And sighs her tearful spells 
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 
Alone, alone, 
Upon a mossy stone. 
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, 
With the last leaves for a love-rosary, 
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, 
Like a dim picture of the drowned past 
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, 
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 
Into that distance, grey upon the grey. 



BALLAD. 35] 



Oh, go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 

Under the languid downfall of her hair : 

She wears a coronal of flowers faded 

Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; — 

There is enough of wither" d everywhere 

To make her bower, — and enough of gloom ; 

There is enough of sadness to invite, 

If only for the rose that died, — whose doom 

Is Beauty's — she that with the living bloom 

Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ;- 

There is enough of sorrowing, and quite 

Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— 

Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl ; 

Enough of fear and shadowy despair 

To frame her cloudy prison for the soul I 



BALLAD, 

Spring it is cheery, 

Winter is dreary, 
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly | 

^Vhen he's forsaken, 

Wither'd and shaken. 
What can an old man do but die ? 

Love will not clip him. 

Maids will not lip him, 
Maud and Marian pass him by ; 

Youth it is sunny. 

Age has no honey, — 
What can an old man do but die ? 

June it was jolly, ^ 

Oh, for its folly ! 
A dancing leg and a laughing eye ; 

Youth may be silly. 

Wisdom is chilly, — 
What can an old man do but die ? 

Friends they are scanty, 

Beggars are plenty, 
If he has followers, I know why ; 

Gold's in his clutches 

(Buying him crutches !) — 
\\Tiat can an old man do but die ? 



354 



HYMN TO THE SUN, 

Giver of glowing light ! 
Though but a god of other days, 

The kings and sages 

Of wiser ages 
Still live and gladden in thy genial rays 1 

King of the tuneful lyre, 
Still poets' hymns to thee belong ; 

Though lips are cold 

Whereon of old 
Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song I 

Lord of the dreadful bow, 
None triumph now for Python's death ; 

But thou dost save 

From hungry grave 
The life that hangs upon a summer breath. 

Father of rosy day, 
No more thy clouds of incense rise ; 
But waking flowers, 
At morning hours, 

Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skiei» 

• 

God of the Delphic fane, 
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime ; 

But they will leave 

On winds at eve, 
A solemn echo to the end of time. 



TO A COLD BEAUTY, 



Lady, wouldst thou heiress be 
To Winter's cold and cruel part? 

When he sets the rivers free, 

Thou dost still lock up thy heart ;— 

Thou that shouldst outlast the snow 

But in the whiteness of thy brow ? 

II. 

Scorn and cold neglect are made 
For v.'nter gloom and winter wind ; 

But thou wilt wrong the summer air, 
Breathing it to words unkind, — 

Breath Avhich only should belong 

To love, to sunlight, and to song I 



RUTH. 355 

IIL 

When the little buds unclose, 

Red, and white, and pied, and blue, 
And that virgin flower, the rose. 

Opes her heart to hold the dew, 
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 
With no jewel in its cup ? 

IV. 

Let not cold December sit 

Thus in Love's peculiar throne ;— 
Brooklets are not prison'd now. 

But crystal frosts are all agone. 
And that which hangs upon the spray. 
It is no snow, but flower of May 1 



AUTUMN, 



The Autumn skies are flush'd with goldf 
And fair and bright the rivers run ; 
These are but streams of winter cold, 
And painted mists that quench the sun. 

IL 

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, 
In secret boughs no bird can shroud ; 
These are but leaves that take to wing, 
And wintry winds that pipe so loud. 

IIL 

'TIS not trees' shade, but cloudy glooins, 
That on the cheerless valleys fell ; 
The flowers are in their grassy tombs, 
And tears of dew are on them aUL 



RUTH. 

She stood breast-high amid the com, 
Clasp'd by the golden light of mom, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun. 
Who many a glowmg kiss had won. 



^-JS* THE SEA OF DEATH, 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell. 
But long lashes veil'd a light 
That had else been all too brighL 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks :— 

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean i 
Lay thy sheaf adown, and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 



THE SEA OF DEATH, 

A FRAGMENT. 

Methought T saw 



Life swiftly treading over endless space ; 
And, at her footprint, but a bygone pace, 
The ocean-past, which, with increasmg wave, 
Swallow'd her steps like a pursuing grave. 

Sad were my thoughts, that anchor'd silently 
On the dead waters of that passionless sea, 
Unstirr'd by any touch of living breath : 
Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, 
Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings 
On crowded carcases — sad passive things, 
That wore the thin grey surface, like a veil 
Over the calmness of their features pale. 

And there were spring-faced cherubs, that did sleep 

Like waterlilies on that motionless deep — 

How beautiful ! with bright unruffled hair 

On sleek, un fretted brows, and eyes that were 

Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! 

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips. 

Meekly apart, as if the soul intense 

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence : 

And so they lay in loveliness, and kept 

The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept 



BALLAD. 

With very envy of their happy fronts ; 

For there were neiglibour brows scarr'd by the brunts 

Of strife and sorrowing, where Care had set 

His crooked autograph, and niarr'd the jet 

Of L'lossy locks with hollow eyes forlorn, 

And hps that curl'd in bitterness and scorn — 

Wretched,— as they had breathed of this world's pain, 

And so bequeath'd it to the world again 

Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs. 

So lay they garmented in torpid light, 
Under the pall of a transparent night, 
Like solemn apparitions luU'd sublime 
To everlasting rest,— and with them Time 
Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face 
Of a dark dial in a sunless place. 



BALLAD. 

She's up and gone, the graceless girij 

And robb'd my failing years ; 
My blood before was thin and cold, 

But now 'tis turn'd to tears ; — 
My shadow falls upon my grave, 

So near the brink I stand ; 
She might have stay'd a little yet. 

And led me by the hand ! 

Ay, call her on the barren moor. 

And call her on the hill ; 
•Tis nothing but the heron's cry. 

And plover's answer shrill ; 
My child is flown on wilder wingt 

Than they have ever spread, 
And I may even walk a waste 

That widen'd when she fled. 

Full many a thankless child has been, 

But never one like mine ; 
Her meat was served on plates of gol(^ 

Her drink was rosy wine. 
But now she'll share the robin's foo(^ 

And sup the common rill, 
Before her feet will turn again 

To meet her father's will 1 



357 



3S8 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER, 



I REMEMBER, I remember 
The house where I was bom, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon. 
Nor brought too long a day, 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away I 

II. 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets and the lily-cups, 
Those flowers made of light I 
The lilacs where the robin built. 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday^— 
The tree is living yet 1 

III. 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly co<d 

The fever on my brow 1 

IV. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high j 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky ; 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 






BALLAD. 

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse 

And Beauty's fairest queen, 
Tho' 'tis not for my peasant lips 

To soil her name between : 
A king might lay his sceptre down, 

But I am poor and nought ; 
The brow should wear a golden crowa 

That wears her in its thought. 

The diamonds glancing in her hair, 

Whose sudden beams surprise, 
Might bid such humble hopes beware 

The glancing of her eyes ; 
Yet looking once, I look'd too long, 

And if my love is sin, 
Death follows on the heels of wrong, 

And kills the crime within. 

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, 

It was so pure and fine ; 
Oh, lofty wears, and lowly weaves, 

But hoddan-grey is mine ; 
And homely hose must step apart 

Where garter'd princes stand, 
But may he wear my love at heart 

That wins her lily hand ! 

Alas ! there's far from russet frieze 

To silks and satin gowns, 
But I doubt if God made like degrees 

In courtly hearts and clowns. 
My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth. 

And brought her cheeks to blame. 
And all that's lordly of my birth 

Is my reproach and shame ! 

•Tis vain to weep,— 'tis vain to sigh, 

'Tis vain, this idle speech, 
For where her happy pearls do lie 

My tears may never reach ; 
Yet, when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say of what has been, 
His love was nobly born and died, 

Tho' all the rest was mean ! 



]fe THE EXILE. 



My speech is rude, — but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell, 
Vet had I words, I dare not speak, 

So, Lady, fare thee well ! 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree, 
But I must weep that partial fate 

Made such a churl of me. 



THE WATER LADY, 

Alas, the moon should ever beam 
To show what man should never see I- 
I saw a maiden on a stream, 
And fair was she ! 

I stay'd awhile to see her throw 
Her tresses back, that all beset 
The fair horizon of her brow 
With clouds of jet. 

I stay'd a little while to view 
Her cheek, that wore, in place of r^ 
The bloom of water, tender blue, 
Daintily spread. 

I stay'd to watch, a little space, 
Her parted lips if she would singj 
The waters closed above her face 
With many a ring. 

And still I stay'd a little more- 
Alas ! she never comes again ; 
I throw my flowers from the shorfl^ 
And watch in vain. 

I know my life will fade away, 
I know that I must vainly pine, 
For I am made of mortal clay, 
But she's divine ! 



THE EXILE. 

The swallow with summer 

Will wing o'er the seas. 
The wind that I sigh to 

Will visit thy trees, 
The ship that it hastens 

Thy ports will contain, 
But me — I must never 

See England again ! 



SONG. 36I. 

There's many that weep there^ 

But one weeps alone, 
For the tears that are falling 

So far from her own ; 
So far from thy own, love, 

We know not our pain, 
If death is between us, 

Or only the main. 

When the white cloud reclines 

On the verge of the sea, 
I fancy the white cliffs, 

And dream upon thee : 
But the cloud spreads it wings 

To the blue heaven, and flies : 
We never shall meet, love, 

Except in the skies ! 

TO AN ABSENTEE. 

O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea, 
Through all the miles that stretch between, 
y f thought must fly to rest on thee, 
And would though worlds should intervene , 

Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks 
The farther we are forced apart, 
Affection's firm elastic links 
But bind the closer round the heart 

For now we sever each from each, 
I learn what I have lost in thee ; 
Alas, that nothing less could teach 
How great indeed my love should be I 

Farewell ! I did not know thy worth, 
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized : 
So angels walk'd unknown on earth, 
But when they flew, were recognized ! 

SONG. 
I. 

The stars are with the voyager 

Wherever he may sail ; 
The moon is constant to her time J 

The sun will never fail ; 
But follow, follow round the world^ 

The green earth and the sea ; 
So love is with the lover's heart, 

Wherever he may be. 



^ 



}6a ODE TO THE MOON, 

II. 

Wherever he may be, the stars 

Must daily lose their light ; 
The moon will veil her in the shade^ 

The sun will set at night. 
The sun may set, but constant love 

Will shine when he's away ; 
So that dull night is never night, 

And day is brighter day. 



ODE TO THE MOON. 



Mother of light ! how fairly dost thou go 
Over those hoary crests, divinely led ! — 
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow 
Fabled of old ? Or rather, dost thou tread ., 
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, '. 
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, \ 
Where hunter never clinib'd,— secure from dread F 
How many antique fancies have I read 
Of that mild presence ! and how many wrought I 

Wondrous and bright, 

Upon the silver light, 
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought ! 

II. 

What art thou like ? — Sometimes I see thee ride 

A far-bound galley on its perilous way, 

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray :— 

Sometimes behold thee glide, 
Cluster'd by all thy family of stars, 
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, 
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars ;^ 
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, 
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, 
Till in some Latmian cave 1 see thee creep, 
To catch the young Endymion asleep, — 
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch 1— 

IIL 

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be — 
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named ; 
And he the veriest Pagan that first framed 
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee I 



ODE TO THE MOON. iby. 

It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee ; 
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, 
And not divine the crescent on thy brows ! — 
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon, 

Behind those chestnut boughs. 
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet, 
I will be grateful for that simple boon. 
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, 
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet. 

IV. 

In nights far gone, — ay, far away and dead,— 

Before Care fretted with a lidless eye, — 

I was thy wooer on my little bed. 

Letting the early hours of rest go by, 

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, 

And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ; 

For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams, — 

Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept 

Their burnish'd helms,, and crowns, and corselets bright, 

Their spears, and glittering mails ; 
And ever thou didst spill in winding streams 

Sparkles and midnight gleams, 
For fishes to new gloss their argent scales ! 

V. 

Why sighs ? — why creeping tears ? — why clasped hands ?— 

Is it to count the boy's expended dower ? 

That fairies since have broke their gifted wands ? 

That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower, 

Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground ? — 

Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, 

Thou art a sadder dial to Old Time 

Than ever I have found 
On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tower, 
Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme, 

VI. 

Why should I grieve for this ? — Oh, I must yearn. 

Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, 

Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, 

Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry, 

With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flowers eterne 

(Eternal to the world, though not to me). 

Ayt there will those brave sports and blossoms be, 

The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon, 

When I am hearsed within, — 
Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, 
That nQW she watches through a vapour thin. 



364 TO 



VII. 

So let it be : — Before I lived to sigh, 
Thou wert in Avon and a thousand rills, 
Beautiful Orb ! and so, whene'er 1 lie 
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. 
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills, 
And blessed thy fair face, O Mother mild ! 
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, 
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond. 
And blend their plighted shadows into one ; 
Still smile at even on the bedded child, 
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand !- 



TO 



Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow ; 

The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine : — 
Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow 
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. 

Here are red Roses, gathered at thy cheeks, — 
The white were all too happy to look white : 
For love the Rose, for faith the Lily speaks ; 
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright I 

Dost love sweet Hyacinth ? Its scented leaf 
Curls manifold, — all love's delights blow double : 
*Tis said this floweret is inscribed with grief, — 
But let that hint of a forgotten trouble. 

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon ; 
Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night ; — 
'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon ! 
And here are Sunflowers, amorous of light ! 

These golden Buttercups are April's seal,— 
The Daisy stars her constellations be : 
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, 
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee 1 

Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom, 
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours : — 
A wight once made a dial of their bloom, — 
So may thy life be measured out by flowers I 



36s 



THE FORSAKEN, 

The dead are in their silent graves, 
And the dew is cold above, 
And the living weep and sigh 
Over dust that once was love. 

Once I only wept the dead, 

But now the living cause my pain : 

How couldst thou steal me from my tearS| 

To leave me to my tears again ? 

My mother rests beneath the sod, — 
Her rest is calm and very deep : 
I wish'd that she could see our loves,— 
But now I gladden in her sleep. 

Last night unbound my raven locks, 
The morning saw them turn'd to grey ; 
Once they were black and well beloved, 
But thou art changed, — and so are they J 

The useless lock I gave thee once, 

To gaze upon and think of me. 

Was ta'en with smiles, — but this was ton 

In sorrow that I send to thee 1 



AUTUMN. 

The Autumn is old, 
The sere leaves are flying ;— 
He hath gather'd up gold, 
And now he is dying ; — 
Old age, begin sighing ! 

The vintage is ripe, 
The harvest is heaping ;— 
But some that have sow'd 
Have no riches for reaping ; — 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping I 

The year's in the wane, 
There is nothing adorning, 
The night has no eve, 
And the day has no morning;— 
Cold winter gives warning. 

The rivers run chill, 

The red sun is sinking, 

And I am grown old, 

And life is fast shrinking ; — 

Here's enow for sad thinking f 



366 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY, 

Come let us set our careful breasts, 
Like Philomel, against the thorn, 
To aggravate the inward grief 
That makes her accents so forlorn. 
The world has many cruel points, 
Whereby our bosoms have been torn, 
And there are dainty themes of grief, 
In sadness to outlast the morn, — 
True honour's dearth, affection's death, 
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn, 
With all the piteous tales that tears 
Have water'd since the world was born. 

The world ! — it is a wilderness, 
Where tears are hung on every tree; 
For thus my gloomy phantasy 
Makes all things weep with me ! 
Come let us sit and watch the sky, 
And fancy clouds where no clouds be ; 
Grief is enough to blot the eye. 
And make heaven black with misery. 
Why should birds sing such merry notes, 
Unless they were more blest than we ? 
No sorrow ever chokes their throats, 
Except sweet nightingale ; for she 
Was born to pain our hearts the more 
With her sad melody. 
Why shines the sun, except that he 
Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, 
And pensive shades for Melancholy, 
When all the earth is bright beside ? 
Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave. 
Mirth shall not win us back again. 
Whilst man is made of his own grave, 
And fairest clouds but gilded rain ! 

I saw my mother in her shroud, 

Her cheek was cold and very pale; 

And ever since I've look'd on all 

As creatures only doom'd to fail ! 

Why do buds ope, except to die ? 

Ay, let us watch the roses wither, 

And think of our loves' cheeks ; 

And oh, how quickly time doth fly 

To bring Death's winter hither ! 

Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, 

Months, years, and a;^es, shrink to nought f 

An age past is but a thought ! 



ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 367 

Ay, let us think of him awhile, 

That, with a coffin for a boat. 

Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, 

And for our table choose a tomb : 

There's dark enough in any skull 

To charge with black a raven plume ; 

And for the saddest funeral thoughts 

A winding-sheet hath ample room, 

Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, 

Hath writ the common doom. 

How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, 

And o'er the dead lets fall its dew. 

As if in tears it wept for them. 

The many human families 

That sleep around its stem ! 

How cold the dead have made these stoneSy 

With natural drops kept ever wet ! 

Lo ! here the best, the worst, the world 

Doth now remember or forget, 

Are in one common ruin hurl'd. 

And love and hate are calmly met ; 

The loveliest eyes that ever shone. 

The fairest hands, and locks of jet. 

Is't not enough to vex our souls, 

And fill our eyes, that we have set 

Our love upon a rose's leaf, 

Our hearts upon a violet ? 

Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet ; 

And, sometimes, at their swift decay 

Beforehand we must fret : 

The roses bud and bloom again ; 

But love may haunt the grave of love, 

And watch the mould in vain. 

Oh, clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine^ 

And do not take my tears amiss ; 

For tears must flow to wash away 

A thought that shows so stern as this ; 

Forgive, if somewhile I forget, 

In woe to come, the present bliss. 

As frighted Proserpine let fall 

Her flowers at the sight of Dis, 

Even so the dark and bright will kiss. 

The sunniest things throw sternest shade^ 

And there is even a happiness 

That makes the heart afraid ! 

Now let us with a spell invoke 
The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; 
Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud 
Lapp'd all about her, let her rise 



368 SONNET, 



AH pale and dim, as if from rest 

The ghost of the late buried sun 

Had crept into the skies. 

The Moon ! she is the source of sighs, 

The very face to malce us sad ; 

If but to think in other times 

The same calm, quiet look she had, 

As if the world held nothing base 

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad ; 

The same fair light that shone in streams, 

The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad : 

For so it is, with spent delights 

She taunts men's brains, and makes them ma(L 

All things are touch'd with Melancholy, 
Born of the secret soul's mistrust, 
To feel her fair ethereal wings 
Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust ; 
Even the bright extremes of joy 
Bring on conclusions of disgust, 
Like the sweet blossoms of the May, 
Whose fragrance ends in must. 
Oh, give her, then, her tribute just, 
Her sighs, and tears, and musings holy t 
There is no music in the life 
That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; 
There's not a string nttuned to mirth 
But has its chord in Melancholy. 



SONNET 

OH MISTRESS NICELY, A PATTERN FOR HOUSEKEEPERS. 
Written after seeing Mrs Davenport in the character at Covent Garden. 

She was a woman peerless in her station. 

With household virtues wedded to her name ; 

Spotless in linen, grass-bleach'd in her fame, 
And pure and clear-starch'd in her conversation ;— 
Thence in my Castle of Imagination 

She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame, 

To keep all airy draperies from shame. 
And all dream furnitures in preservation : 

There waiketh she with keys quite silver bright, 
In perfect hose, and shoes of seemly black, 

Apron and stomacher of lily-white, 
And decent order follows in her track ; 

The burnish'd plate grows lustrous in her sight, 
And polish'd floors and tables shine her back. 



369 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKESPEARE. 

How bravely Autumn paints upon tlie sky 

1 he gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled ! 

Hues of all flowers that in their ashes lie 

Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed. 

lulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red — 

Like exhalations from the lenfv mould ' 

Look here how honour glorifies the dead, 

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold 

buch IS the memory of poets ok! 

Who on Parnassus' hill have blo'om'd elate • 

I^c.w they are laid under thdr marbles cold' 

And turn d to clay, whereof they were create I 

^ut God Apollo hath them all enroh'd 

And blazon'd on the very clouds of fate I 

SONNET. 

TO FANCY. 

Most delicate Ariel ! submissive thin? 
Won bv the mind's high m.g.c to u. li^st,- 
Invisible embassy, or secret -uest,— 
Weighing the li-ht air on a lighter wincr ._ 
Whether into the midnight mo.n, to brmV 
llfuminate visions to the eve of rest — 
Or rich romances from the florid West — 
Ur to the sea, for mystic whisperin- — 
?-K ?y-^l'^; ^harm'd allegiance to the will. 
The fruitful wishes prosp.-r in the brain, 
As by the fingerin- of fairy skill,— 
Moonlight, and waters, and soft music's strain, 
Oaours,and blooms, ..nd viy .Miranda's smile. 
Making this dull world an enchanted isle. 

SONNET. 

TO AN ENTHUSIAST. 

Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's tnith 

f:Tln':T'' °f '";"' '-'"^ ^^— >' of mind '^' 
And St;,! a large late love ot all thv kind 

Spite of the world's cold practice ;ind Tune's tooth- 
For .1 these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth ' 

\Vhether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind ' 
Thine eyes with tears,-that thou has not resigned 
The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth : 

2 A 



37© SONNETS. 

For as the current of thy life sh :]1 flow. 
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd, 
. Through flowery v.iUey or unwholesome fen, 

Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe 
Thrice cursed of thy race,— thou art ordain'd 
To share beyond the lot of common men. 



SONNET, 

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh 

This eloquent breath shall take its speechleis flight | 

That sometime these bright stars, tiiat now reply 

In sunlight to the sun, sh ill set in night : 

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite. 

And all life's ruddy snrings forget to flow ; 

That thoughts sliall cease, and ihe immortal sprite 

Be lapp'd m alien clay and laid below ; — 

It is not death to know this, — but to know 

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves 

In tender pilgrimage, will ce ise to go 

So duly and so oft, — and when grass waves 

Over the passed-away, there m ly be thea 

No resurrection in the minds of men. 



SONNET. 

By every sweet tradition of true hearts, 

Graven by Time, in love \vith his own lore J 

By all old mart) rdoms and antique smarts. 

Wherein Love died to be alive the mure ; 

Ye. I, by the sad impression on the shore 

Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear 

That coast for ever, where the billow's roar 

Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear ; 

By Hero's faith, and the foreboding teir 

That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall; 

By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear 

That sigh'd around her flight ; — I swear by all, 

The world shall find such pattern in my act, 

As if Love's great examples still were lack'd. 



SONNET. 

ON RECEIVING A GIFT. 

Look how the golden ocean shines above 
Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their mrth ; 
So does the bright and blessed light of Love 
Its own things glorify, and raise their wortn. 



SONNETS. 371 

As weeds seem flowers beneath the flatterinsr brine, 
And stones like gems, and gems as gems indeed, 
Even so our tokens shine ; nay, they outshine 
Pebbles and pearls, and gems and coral weed ; 
For where be ucean w.ives but half so clear, 
So calmly constant, and so kindly Wnrm, 
As Love's most mild and gU-wing atmosphere, 
That hath no dregs to be upturn'd by storm ? 
Thus, sweet, thy gracious ^ifts are gifts of price. 
And more than gold to doting Avarice. 



SONNET, 

The curse of Adam, the old curse'of all, 

Though I inherit in this feverish life 

Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife. 

And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall. 

Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall 

I taste, through thee, my Eva, my sweet wife. 

Then what was Man's lost Paradise ! — how rife 

Of bliss, since love is with hmi in his fall ! 

Such as our own pure j)assion still might frame, 

Of this fair earth and its delightful bowers, 

If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came 

To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flowers ; — 

But oh ! as many and such te.irs are ours. 

As only should be shed for guilt and shame I 



SONNET. 

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, 
Lives not within the humour of the eye ; — 
Not being but an outward phantasy, 
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek, — 
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weakj 
As if the rose made summer, — and so lie 
Amongst the perishable things that die, 
Unlike the love which I would give and seek : 
Whose health is of no hue— to feel decav 
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. 
Love is its own great loveliness alway, 
And takes new lustre from the touch of time ; 
Its bough owns no December and no May, 
But bears its blossom into Winter's clime. 

• 



SONNET, 

SILENCE. 

There is a silence where hath been no sound. 
There is a silence where no sound may be, 
In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, 

Or in \\ ide desert where no life -is found. 

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ; 
No voice IS hush'd — no life treads silently, 
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 

That never spoke, over the idle ground : 

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been. 

Though the dun fox or v\ild hyena calls, 
And owls, that flit continually between. 

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,— 

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alonek 




CONTRIBUTIONS 



TO 



«THE GEM."* 



A WIDOW 

HATH always been a mark for mockery : — a standing butt for wit 
to level at. Jest after jest hath been huddled upon her close 
cap, and stuck, like burrs, upon her weeds. Her sables are a perpetual 
" lil,.ck Joke." 

Satirists — prose and verse — have made merry with her bereavements. 
She is a stock character on the stage. Farce bottleth up her crocodile 
tears, or labelleth her empty lachrymatories. Comedy mocketh her 
precocious flirtations — Trai^edy even girde;.h at her fraihy, and twit- 
teth her with " the funeral baked meats coldly furnishing forth the 
marriage tables." 

I confess, when I called the other day on my kinswoman G. — then 
in the second week of her widowhood — and saw iier sitting, her voung 
boy by her side, in her recent sables, I felt unable to reconcile her 
estate with any risible associations. The lady v\ ith a skeleton moiety 
— in the old print, in Bowles's old sho))-windo\v — seemed but a tvpe 
of her condition. Her husband — a whole hemisphere in love's world 
• — was deficient. One complete side — her left — was deatli-stricken. 
It was a matrimonial paralysis, unprovocative of l.iugiiter. I could as 
soon have tittered at one of those melancholy objects that drag theii 
poor dead-alive bodies about our streets. 

It seems difficult to account for the popular prejudice against lone 
women. There is a majority, I trust, of such honest, decorous mourn- 
ers as my kinswoman : yet are widows, like the Hebrew, a proverb 
and abyevvord amongst nations. From the first putting on of the sooty 
garments, they become a stock joke — chimney-sweep or blackamoor 
is not surer — by mere virtue of their nigritude. 

* The Gem : a Literary Annual. Edited by Thomas Hood, Esq. London I 
W. Marshall, 1829. 



374 THE FAREWELL. 

Are the wanton amntory glances of a few pairs of graceless eyes, 

twinkling through their cunning waters, to reflect so evil a liL;ht on a 
whole community ? Vcrilv the sad benighted orbs of that noble relict 
—the Lady Rnchel Russell — blinded through unsercne drops for het 
dead Lord, — might atone for nil sueh oglmi;s ! 

Are the traditional freaks of a Dame of Ephesus, or a Wife of 
Eath, or a Qu< en of Denmark, to cnst so broad a shadow over a whole 
sisterhood ? There must be, methinks, some more general infirmity — 
common, probably, to all Eve-kind — to justify so sweeping a stigma. 

Does the satiric spirit, perhnps. institute splenetic comparisons be- 
tween the lofty poetical pretensions of posthumous tenderness and 
their fulfilment ? The sentiments of Love especially affect a high heroi- 
cnl pitch, of which the human performance can present, at best, but 
a burlesque parody. A widow, that hath lived only for her husband, 
should die with him. She is flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone ; 
and it is not seemly for a mere rib to be his survivor. The prose of 
her practice accords not with the poetry of her professions. She hath 
done with the world, — and you meet her in Regent Street. Earth hath 
now nothing left for her — but she swears and administers. She cannot 
survive him — and invests in the Z^;z^ Annuities. 

The romantic fancy resents, and the satiric spirit records, these 
discrepancies. By the ronjuijal theory itself there ought to be no 
widows ; aud. accordingly, a class that, by our milder manners, is 
merely ridiculed, on the ruder banks of the Ganges is literally r^aj/^^.* 



THE FARE WELL. 

TO A FRENCH AIR. 

Fare thee well, In the night, 

Gabrielle ! Ere the fight, 

Whilst 1 join France, In the night, 

With bright cuirass and lance 1 I'll think ot thee t 
Trumpets swell, And in prayer, 

Gabrielle ! Lady fair ! 

War-horses prance, In thy prayer. 

And cavaliers advance I Then think of me ! 

Death may knell, 

Gabrielle ! 
Where mv plumes dance, 
By arquebuss or lance I 

Then farewell, 

Gabrielle ! 
Take my last glance ! 
Fair Miracle of France ! 

* The above was written in imitation of the style of Charles Lamb, and td 
rcii.ler the lio.ax complete, was actually signed with his name. 



375 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM, 

'TWAS in the prime of summer-time, 

An evenmg calm and cool, 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school : 
There were some that ran, and some that leapt^ 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 

And souls untouch'd by sin ; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about. 

And shouted as they ran, 
Turnmg to mirth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the Usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man ! 

His hat was off, his vest apart. 
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; 

For a burning thought was m his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease ; 

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read 
The book between his knees ! 

Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide : 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strain'd the dusky covers close, 

And fix'd the brazen hasp : 
** O God ! could I so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 

Some moody turns he took, — 
Now up the mead, then down the mead, 

And past a shady nook, — 
And, lo ! he saw a little l^oy 

That pored upon a book 1 



376 THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

" My gentle lad, what is't you read — 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable ?" 
The young boy gave an upward glance,™- 

" It is ' The Death of Abel.' " 



The Usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain, — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place. 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talk'd with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men. 

Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
Of lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves ; 
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn. 

And murders done in caves ; 

And how the sprites of injuri^d men 

Shriek upward from the sod, — 
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 

To show the burial clod ; 
And unknown facts of guilty acts, 

Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth 

Bent ath the curse of Cain, 
With crimson clouds beiore their eyes. 

And flames about their brain : 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain ! 

" And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme, — 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why? Methought, last night, I wrought 
A murder in a dream ! 

** One that had never done me wrong— 

A fevble man, and old : 
I led him to a lonely field, — 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
*Now here,' said I, ' this man shall die. 

And 1 will have his jiold 1' 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 377 

** Two sudden blows with a ragged stick. 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,— 

And then the deed was done : 
There was nothing lying at my foot 

But lifeless flesh and bone ! — 



•Nothing but lifeless flesh and bon^ 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I fear'd him all the more 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look 

That murder could not kill 1 

" And lo ! the universal air 

Seem'd lit with ghastly flame, — 
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyef 
Were looking down in blame : 

I took the dead man by the hand, 
And call'd upon his name ! 

** O God ! it made me quake to see 
Such sense within the slain ! 

But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, 
The blood gush'd out amain I 

For every clot, a burning spot 
Was scorching in my brain I 

** My head was like an ardent coal. 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew. 

Was at the Devil's price : 
A dozen times I groan'd ; the dead 

Had never groan'd but twice I 

**And now, from forth the frowning sky. 
From the heaven's topmost height, 

I heard a voice — the awful voice 
Of the Blood-Avenoing Sprite : — 

*Thou guilty man ! take up thy deac^ 
And hide it from my sight !' 

** I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream, — 
A sluggish water, black as ink. 

The depth was so extreme,— 
My gentle Boy, rememl-er this 

Is nothmg but a dream ! 



378 THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

" Down went the corse with a hollow pluiige^ 

And vanish'd in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 

And wash'd my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young 

That evenin.r in the school ! — 



*' O Heaven ! to think of their white souISy 
And mine so black and grim ! 

I could not share in childish prayer, 
Nor j )in in Evening Hymn : 

Like a Devil of the Pit, I seem'd, 
'Mid Holy Cherubim ! 

"And Peace went with them, one and all, 
And each calm pillow spread ; 

But Guilt was my grim chamberlain 
That lighted me to bed ; 

And drew my midnight curtains roundy 
With fingers bloody red 1 

**A11 night I lay in agony, 

In anguish dark and deep ; 
My fever'd eyes I dared not clos^ 

But stared aghast at Sleep : 
For Sin had render'd unto her 

The Keys of Hell to keep 1 

** All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime, 
With one besetting horrid hmt, 

That rack'd me all the time,— 
A mighty yearning, like the first 

Fierce impulse unto crime I 

"One stern tyrannic thought, that mad* 

All other thoughts its slave ; 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that lemptatian crave, — 
Still urging me to go and see 

The Dead Man in his grave 1 

** Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky. 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye ; 
And I saw the Dead in the river-bed. 

For the faithless stream was dry 1 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 37J 

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook 

The dew drop from its wing ; 
But I never mark'd its morning flight, 

I never heard it sing : 
For I was stoo[)ing once again 

Under the horrid thing. 

** With breathless speed, like a soul in chase^ 

I todk him up and ran, — 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began ; 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves 

I hid the murder'd man ! 

**And all that day I read in school, 

But niy thought was other where ; 
As soon as the midday task was done, 

In secret I was there : 
And a mighty wind had swept the leavei^ 

And still the corse was bare ! 

•Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep : 
Or land, or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep ! 

" So wills the fierce Avenging Sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones ! 
Ay, though he's buried in a cave, 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh — 

The world shall see his bones I 

*' O God ! that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake ! 
Again — again, with a dizzy brain. 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging ho^ 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 

"And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul,— 

It stands before me now ! " — 
The fearful boy look'd up, and saw 

Huge droj-S-upon his brow ! 



58o A MAY-DAY. 



That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kiss'd, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn.^ 

Through the cold and heavy mist j 
And Euj^ene Aram walk'd between, 

With gyves upon his wrist.* 



ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER, 

Why, Lover, why . Why, Cupid, why 

Such a water-rover? M;ike the p;issage brighter? 

W^ould she love thee more Were not any boat 

For coming half seas overt Better than a lighter t 

Why, Lady, why Why, Maiden, \\hy 

So in love with dipping? So intrusive standing? 

Must a Lid of Greece, Must thou be on the stnir 

Come all over dripping t When he's on the landing t 



A MAY-DAY. 

I KNOW not what idle schemer or mad wag put such a folly into 
the head of my Lady Rasherly, but she resolved to C( lehrate a 
M;iy-day after the old fashion, and convert Porkington P.irk — her 
Hampshire Leasowes — into a new Arcadia. Such revivals have 
always come to a bad end : the Golden Age is not to be regilt ; 
Pastoral is gone out, and Pan txtinct— Pans will not last for ever. 

But Lady Rashtily's fete was fixed. A large order \^as sent to 
Int^ram, of rustic celebrity, for nubbly sofas and crooked chairs ; a 

letter was dispatched to the Manager of the P h Theatre, be;4ging 

a loan from the dramatic wardrube ; and old Jenkms, the steward, 
was sent through the village to assemble as many, male and female, 
of the b;irn-door kind, as he could muster. Happy for the Lady had 
her Hampshire pe;isantry been nure pig-headed and hoggishly untract- 
able, like the staple animal of the county : but the lime came, and 
the tenants. Happy tor her had the good-natured manager excused 
himself with a plea tliat the cottage-hats, and blue boddices, and 
russet skirts were bespoke, for that very night, by Rosina and her 
villagers. But the day came, and the dresses. I am told that old 
Jenkins and his helpmate had a world of trouble in the distribution 
of the borrowed plumes: this maiden turning up a pug-nose, still 
pugger, at a faded boddice ; that danibel thrusting out a pair of 
original pouting lips, still more spout-like, at a rusty ribbon ; carroty 

* The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where ihe 
nnliappy Eugene Aram was uslier, subsequent to his criine. The Admiral 
stfited, that Aiam was generally liked by the boys ; and that he used to dis- 
coiir.-.e lo them about iimrder, in somewhat of the spirit which is attribuicd 
to him in the poem. — \_I\ote by the Author.^ 



A MA YDA Y. 381 

Celias wanted more roses in their hair, and dumpy Delias more flounces 
in their petticoats. Theie is a natural t;ict, huwever, in womankind 
as to matters oi dress, that made tlieni look tolerably when all was 
done : but pray except troni this praise the g.adcner's daughter, Dolly 
Blossom, — a born sloven, with her horticuhural hose, which she had 
primed so often at top to g?a/t at bottom, that, from long stockinL;s, 
they had dwindled into short socks ; and it seemed as if, by a similar 
process, she had coaxed her natural calves into her ankles. The men 
were less fortunate in their toilette : they looked slack m their tights, 
and tight in their slai ks ; to say nothing of Johnny Giles, who was so 
tiyht all over, that he looked as if he had st(jlen his clothes, and the 
clothes, turning King's evidence, were gomg to "j^///upon him." 

In the meantime, the retainers at the Park h?»i net heen idle. The 
old mast was taken down from the old barn, and,sfnD04;cl of jts weathi^r- 
cock, did duty as a May-pole. The trees and shrubs were hung with 
artihcial garlands ; and a large marquee made an agreeable contrast, 
in canvas, with the long lawn. An exteinpore wooden arbour h.id 
likewise been trected for the May Queen ; and here stood my Lady 
Rabherly with her daugluers : my Lady, with a full-moon face and a 
half-moon tiara, was Diana ; the young ladies represenied her nymphs, 
and they had all bows and arrows, Spanish hats anri leathers, Lineoln 
green spensers and slashed sleeves, — the uniform o* the Forkington 
Archery. There were, moreover, six younger young iaoics— a loan 
Irom the parish school — wiio were to be the immediate attendants on 
her Sylvan M.^jesty, and, as they expressed it in their own simple Doric, 
"to shy flowers at her J'ui I" 

And now the nymphs and swains began to assemble : Damon and 
PhiUis, Strephon and Amar\llis — a nomenclature not a little puzzling 
to the performers, for Delia answered to Damon, and Chloe instead 
of Colin, — 

"And though I called another, Abra came." 

But I must treat you with a few personalities. Damon was one 
Darius Dobbs. He \\ as entrusted with a fine tinsel crook and half- 
a-dozen sheep, which he was puzzled to keep, by hook or by crook, to 
the lawn ; lor Corydon, his tellow-shepherd, had quietly hung up his 
pastoral tml'lem. and walked off to the sign of the Rose and 'trown. 
Poor Damon ! there he sat looking the very original of Philips's line, — 

"Ah, silly I, more silly than my sheep :" 

And, to add to his perplexity, he could not help seeing and hearin<^ 
Mary Jenks, his own sweetheart, who, having no lambs to keep, was 
romping where she would, and treating whom she would with a kind- 
ness by no means sneakmg. Poor Darius Dobbs ! 

Gregory Giles was Colin ; and be was sadly hampered with " t\\o 
hands out of employ; ' tor, after feeling up his bacK, and down i.is 
bosom, and about his hips, he had discovered that, to save time and 
trouble, his siage-cloihes had b^en made without pockets. But 

** Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do ; " 



382 A MA Y.DAY. 

and, nccordingly, he soon set Colin's fingers to work so busily, that 
they twiddled off all the buttons from his borrowed jacket. 

Strephon was nothing particuLir, only a sky-blue body on a pair of 
chocolate-coloured legs. But Luhin was a jewel ! He had formerly 
been a private in the Baconfield Yeomanry, and, therefore, thought 
proper to surmount his pastoral uniform with a cavalry cap ! Sucii 
an incongruity was not to he overlooked. Old Jenkins remonstrated, 
but Lubin was obstinate ; the steward persisted, and the othtr replied 
with a " positive negaiive ;" and, in the end, Lubin went off in a hun 
to the Ruse and Cro^n. 

The force of two bad exanples was too much for the virtue of Darius 
Dobbs : he threw away his crook, left his sheep to anybody, and ran 
off to the alehouse, and, what was worse, Colin was bent after him, ac.d 
never came back ! 

The chief of the faithful shepherds who now remained at the Park 
was Hobbinol — one Josias Strong, a notorious glutton, who had won 
sundry wagers by devouring a leg of mutton and trimmings at a sitting. 
He was a big lubberly fellow, that had been born great, and had 
achieved greatness, but had not greatness thrust upon him. It was 
as much as he could do to keep his trousers, — for he was at once clown 
and pantaloon, — down to the knee, and more than he could do to keep 
them up to the waist ; and, to ciown all, having rashly squatted down 
on the lawn, the juicy hfrhage had h-ft a stain behind, on his caliman- 
coes, that still occupies the '' greenest spot" in the memoirs of Bacon- 
field. 

There were some half-dozen of other rustics to the same pattern, but 
the fancy of my Lady Rasiierly did not confine itself to. the hummi- 
ties. Old Joe Bradley, the blacksmith, was Pan ; and truly he made a 
respectable sat\r enough, for he came half drunk, and was rough, 
grufiE,. tawny and brawny, and bow-legged, and hadn't lieen shaved for 
a month. His cue was to walk about in buckskins, leading his own 
billy-goat, and he was followed up and down by his sister, Patty, whom 
the wags called Patty Pan. 

The other deity was also a wet one— a Triton amongst iiiythologists, 
but Timothy Gubbins with his familiars, — the acknowledged dolt of 
the village, and remarkable; for his weekly slumbers in the parish 
churcih. It had been ascertained th.it he could neither pipe, nor sing, 
nor dance, nor even keep sheep, so he was stuck with an urn under 
his arm, and a rush crown, as the God of the fishpond, — a task, simple 
as it was, that proved beyond his genius, for, after stupidly dozing 
awhile over his vase, he fell into a sound snoring sleep, out of whii :h he 
cold-pigged himself by tumbling, urn and all, into his own fountain. 

Misfortunes al A ays come pick a-back. The Rose and Crown hap- 
pened to be a receiving house for the drowned, under the patronage 
the Humane Society, wherefore the Water-God m?^\?,\.^A on going there 
to be dried, and Cuddv, who had pulled him out, insisted on going with 
him ! These two had certainly some slight excuse for walking off to 
the alehouse, whereas, Sylvio thought proper to follow them without 
any excuse at all ! 

This mischance was but the prelude of new dis;isters. It was neces» 
sary, before beginning the sports of the day, to elect a May Quekn, 



A MAY-DAY. 383 

and, by the influence of Lady Rasherly, the choice of the lieges fell 
upon Jenny Acres, a really pretty maiden, and worthy of the honour ; 
but in the meantime, Dolly Wiggins, a brazen, strapping dairymaid, 
had quietly elected herself,— snatched a flower-basket from one of tlie 
six Florns, strewed her own path, and getting first to the royal arbour, 
squatted tiiere firm and fast, and persisted in reigning as QUEEN in 
her own right. Hence :irose civil and uncivil war, — and Alexis and 
Diggon, being interrupted in a boxing-match in the park, adjourned 
to the Rose and Crown to have it out ; and as two c m't make a ring, a 
round dozen of the shepherds went along with them for that purpose. 

There now remained but five sw.iins in Arcadia, ;ind they had five 
nymphs apiece, besides Mary Jenks, who divitied her favour equally 
amongst them aU. There should have been next in order a singing 
match on the l.swn, for a prize, after the fashion of Pope's Pastorals ; 
but Corydon, one of the warblers, had bolted, and Palemon, who 
remained, had forgotten what was set dov/n for him, though he oblig- 
ingly offered to smg "Tom Bowling" instead. But Lady Rasherly 
thought proper to dispense with the song, and there being nothing 
else, or better, to do, she directed a movement to the marquee, in order 
to begin, though somewhat e.aiy, on the collation. Alas ! even this 
was a failure. During the time of Gubbins's ducking — the Queen's 
coronation— and the boxing-match — HobVjinol, that great greedy lout, 
had been privily in the pavilion, glutting his i onstitutional voracity oa 
the substanti.ils, and he war, now lying insensible and hirmless, like a 
gorged boa-cop.strictor, by the side of the talile. P^n, too, had been 
missing, and it w.is thought he was at the Rose and Crown, — but no 
such luck ! He had been having a sly pull at the tent tankards, and 
from half drunk had got so whole drunk, that he could not hinder his 
goat from having a butt even at Diana herself, nor iVom entangling 
his horns in the table-cloth, by which the catastrophe of the collation 
was completed ! 

The rest of the fete consisted of a succession of misfortunes which 
it would be painful to dwell upon, and cruel to describe minutely. So 
I will but hint, briefly, how the fragments of the banquet were scrambled 
for by the Arcadians— how they danced afterw.irds round the Maypole, 
not tripping themselves like f dries, but tripping one another — how the 
Honourable Miss Rasherly, out of idleness, stood fitting the notch oi 
an arrow to the string, and how the shaft went oft' of itself, and lodged, 
unluckily, in the calf of one of the caperers. I v\ ill leave to the imagi- 
nation what suits were torn past mending or soiled be) ond washing 
— the lamentations of old Jenkins — and the vows of Lady Rasherly 
and her daughters thnt there should be no more May-days at Pork- 
ington. Suffice it, that night found a// the Arculians at the Rose and 
Crown : and on the morrow, Diana and her nymphs were laid up with 
severe colds — Doily ^^ iggins was out of place — Hobbinol in a surfeit 
— Alexis before a magistrate — Palemon at a surgeon's — Billy in the 
pound — and Pan in the stocks, whh the fumes of the last night's 
liquor not yet evaporated from his grey gooseberry eyes. 



CREAM OF THE COMIC ANNUALS 







A pastoral in A flat 



THE PUGSLEY PAPERS* 

HOW the following correspondence came into my hands must 
remain a Waverley mystery. The Pugsley Papers were neither 
rtscued from a garret, like the Evelyn, — collected trnm c;;rtridges, like 
the CuUoden, nor saved, like the Garrick, from being shredded into 
a snowstorm at a Winter Theatre. They were not snati hed from a 
tailor's shears, like the original parchment of M. gna Charta. They 
were neither the Legacy of a Dominie, nor the communicitions of My 
Landlord,— a consignment, Iikt the Clinker Letters, from some Rev. 
Jonathan Dustwich, — nor' the waifs and stra\ s of a Twopenny Post 
B.ig. They were not unrolled from ancient papyri. They were 
none of those that " line trunks, clothe s ices," or paper the walls of old 
attics. They were neith-r given to me nor sold to me, — nor stolen, — 
nor borrowed and surreptitiously <'opied, — nor left in a hackney-coach, 
like Sheridan's play, nor misdelivered by a carrier-i'igeun, — nor 
dreamt of, like Colerid;;e's Kubla Khan, — nor turned uj) in the Tower, 
like Milton's Foundhng MS.,— nor dug up.---nor trumped up, like the 
EasternTales of Horam harum Horam the Son of Asm .r, — nor brought 
over by Rammnhun Roy, — nor translated by Doctor Bowring from 
the Scandinavian, Batavian, Pomeranian, Spanish, or Danish, or Ru:^- 

* Comic Annual, 1S32. 



rHE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 385 

fs^an, or Pni=;sinn, or any other Imr^u^f^e dead or livinpf. They were 
not pick' d t'nim ihe De:id Letter Office, nor purloined trom the iiritish 
ivius' um. In short, I cannot, dare not, will not, hint even at the 
mode ot their acquisition : the re lUtr must be content to know that, 
in pi int ot autlicnticiiy, the PuLfsley Paptrs are the extreme reverse 

of L idy L ^"o celebrated Auto-;raphs, which were all written by the 

prupiielor. 

No. I. — From ^f aster Richard Pug^ley to Af aster Robert 
Rogers, at Nuiiii-cr 132 Barbican. 

IlEAR Bob,— Huzza !— Here I am in Lincolnshire ! It's good-bye to 
Wtlhni;tons nnd Cossacks, Ladies' double channels, Gentleinen's stout 
caif; and ditto ditto. They've all been sold off under prime cost, and 
the old Sh^e Mart is disposed of, _i;oodwill and iixtures, for ever and 
ever. Father has been made a rich Squire of by will, and we've got 
a house and fields and trees of our own. Such a garden, Bob ! — It 
beats White Conduit. 

Now, Bob, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to come down 
here for the holidays. Don't be afraid. Ask your Sister to ask your 
Mother to ask your Father to let you come. It's only ninety mile. 
If vou're out of pocket-money, you can walk, and beg a lift now and 
then, or swing by the dickeys. Put on corduroys, and don't care for 
cut behind. The two | rentices, George and Will, are here to be made 
farmers of, and brother Nick is took home iVom school to help in agri- 
culture. We like farming very much, it's capital tun. Us four have 
got a i^un, and go out shooting : it's a fainous good un, and sure to 
go off, if you don't full cock it. Tig r is to be our shooting dog as 
soon as he has lei't off killing the sheep. He's a real savage, and 
worries cats beautiful. Before Father comes down, we mean to bait 
our bull with hiin. 

There's plenty of New Rivers about, and we're going a fishing as 
soon as we have mended our top-joint. We've killed one of ourslieep 
on tlie sly to get gentles. We've a pony too, to ride upon when we can 
catch him, but he's loo^^e in the paddock, and has neither mane nor 
tail to signify to lay hold of. Isn't it prime. Bob ? You nuist come. 
If your Mother won't give your Father leave to allow you, — run awav. 
Remember, you turn up Goswell Street to go to Lincolnshire, and ask 
for Middlefen Hall. There's a pond full of frogs, but we won't pelt 
them till you come, but let it be before Suiiday, as there's our own 
orchard to rob, and the fruit's to be g ithered on Monday. 

If you like suckmg raw eg;4S, we know where the hens lay, and 
mother don't ; and I'm bound there's lots of birds' nests. Do come, 
Bob, and I'll show you the wasps' nest, and everything that can 
•Jiake you comfortable. I daresay you could borrow your father's 
volunteer mu-ket of him without his knowing of it ; but be sure .iny- 
Jiow to bring the ramrod, as vve have mislaid ours byfirin.; it off, 
Oon't forget some bird-hme, 'Bob— and some fish-hooks — and some 
different sorts of shot — and some gut and some gunpowder — and a 
«entle-box. and some flints, — some Mayilies, — and a powder-horn, — 
and a landing-net and a dog-vvhistk — and some porcupine quills, and 

2 B 



386 THE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 

a bullet-mould — and a trolling-uinch, and a shot-belt and a tin can. 
You pav for 'em, Bob, and 111 owe it you. — Your old friend and 
schoolfellow, Richard Pugslsy. 

No. II, — From the Sa7tte to the Same. 

Dear Bob, — When you come, bring us a 'bacco-ripe to load the 
gun with. If you don't come, it can come by tlit- wagj^on. Our 
Public House is three mile off, and when you've walked iliere it's out 
of everything. Yours, &c., RICH. PuGSLEY. 

No. III. — From Miss Anastasia Pugsley /t? Miss Jemima Mog- 
GRIDGE, rt/ Gregory House Establishnent for Young Ladies, Mile 
End. 

My dear Jemima, — Deeply 'feoUcitous to gratify sensibility, by 
sympathising with our fortuitous elevation, I seize the epistolary 
implements to inform you, that by the testamentary disposition of a 
remote branch of consanguinity, our tutelary residence is removed 
from the metropolitan horizon to a pastoral district and its congenial 
pursuits. In futurity 1 shall be more pertinaciously superstitions in 
the astrological revelations of human destiny. You remember the 
mysterious gipsy at Hornsey Wood.'' — Well, the eventful fortune she 
obscurely intimated, though couched in vague terms, has come to pass 
in minutest particulars ; for I perceive perspicuously, that it predicted 
th.it papa should sell off his boot and shoe business at 133 13arbican, 
to Clack & Son, of 144 Hatton Garden, and that we should retire, in 
a station of affluence, to Middlefen Hall, in Lincolnshire, by bequest of 
our great-great maternal uncle, Pdlexfen GolHsworthy Wrigglesworth, 
Esq., who deceased suddenly of apoplexy at Wisbeach Market, in the 
ninety-third year of his venerable and lamented age. 

At the risk of tedium, I will attempt a cursory delineation of our 
rural paradise, altho' I feel it would be mor.dly arduous to give any 
idea of the romantic scenery of the Lincolnshire Fens. Conceive, as 
far as the visual organ expands, an immense sequestered level, abun- 
dantly irrigated with minute rivulets, and studded with tutted oaks, 
whilst more than a hundred windmills diversify the prospect and 
give a revolving animation to the scene. As for our own gardens and 
grounds, they are a periect Vauxhall — excepting of course the ro«.unda, 
the orchestra, the company, the variegated lamps, the fireworks, and 
those very lofty trees. But I trust my de.ir Jemima will supersede 
topography by ocular inspection ; and in the interim I send for accept- 
ance a graphical view of the locality, shaded in Indian ink, which will 
suffice to convey an idea of the terrestrial verdure and celestial azure 
we enjoy, in lieu of the sable exhalations and architectural nigritude 
of the metropolis. 

You who know my pastoral aspirings, and have been the in(;ulgent 
confident of my votive tributes to the Muses, will conceive the refined 
natuie of my enjoyment when I mention the intellectual repast of this 
morning. I never could enjoy Hloomfield in Bari ic m, — i)ut to-day 
he read beautifully under our pear-tree. 1 look lorward to the %licity 



THE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 



387 



of rending Thomson's Summer with you on the o^reen seat, and if 
en.i^ag mcnts ;it Christmas permit your participation in the bard, 
there is a bower of evergreens 
that will be deli-httul lor the 
perusal of his Winter. 

I enclose, by request, nn 
epistolary effusion from sis- 
ter Dorothy, which I know 
will provoke your risible 
powers, by the domesticity 
of its details. You know she 
was always in the homely 
characteristics a perfect Cin- 
derella, though I doubt 
whether even suiernatural 
agency could adapt her foot 
to a diminutive vitrihed slip- 
per, or her hand for a prince 
of regal primogeniture. But 
I am summoned to receive, 
with family members, the 
felicitations of Lincolnshire 
aristocnicy ; though whatever 
necessary distinctions may 
prospectively occur between 
respective grades in life, they 
will only superficially affect 
the sentiments of eternal 
friendship between my dear 
Jemima and her affectionate friend, Anastasia Pugsley. 




Cinderella- 



No. IV. — From Miss Dorothy Pugsley to t/ie Same. 

My dear Miss Jemima,— Providence having been pleased to 
remove my domestic duties from Barbican to Lincolnshire, I trust I 
shall have strength of constitution to fulfil them as becomes my new 
allotted line of lite. As we are not sent into this world to be idle, and 
Anastasia has declined housewifery, I have undertaken the D.'.iry, and 
the Brewery, and the Bakirig, and the Poultry, the Pigs and the 
Pastry, — and though 1 feel fatigued at first, use reconciles to labours 
and trials more severe than I at present enjoy. Altho' things may 
not turn out to wish at present, yet nil well-directed efforts are sure 
to meet rewnrd in the end, and altho' I have chumped and churned 
two dnys running, and it's nothing yet but curds and whey, I should 
be wrong to despair of eating butter of my own making before I die. 
Considering the adulteration committed by every article in Loncion, 
I was never happier in any prospect than of drinking my own milk, 
fattening my own calves, and laying my own eggs. We cat kle so 
much, I am sure we new-lay somewhere, tho' I cannot find oat our 
nests ; and I am looking every day to have chickens, ns one p^ pper- 
and-salt-col(!ured hen has been sitting these two months. Wlun a 
poor Ignorant bird sets me such an example of patience, how can I 



388 THE PUGSLE V PAPERS. 

repine at the hardest domestic drudgery I Mother and I hnve worked 
like horses to be sure, ever since we came to tiie estate ; but if we die 
in It. we know it's for the good of the family, and to agreeably surprisi' 
my Father, who is still in town winding up his books. For my own 
part, if it was right to look at things so selfishly, 1 should say I never 
was so hap;)y in my life ; though 1 own I have cried more since com- 
ing here than I ever remember before. You will confess my crosses 
and losses have been unusual trials, when I tell you, out of all my 
m.ikings, and bakings, and brewings, and preservings, there has been 
nothing either eatable or drinkable ; and what is more p^unful to an 
affectionate mind, — have half poisoned the whole f imily with home- 
made ketchup of toadstools, by mistake for mushrooms. When I 
rctlect that they are ^reserved, I ought not to grieve aoout my dam- 
sons and bullaces, done by Mrs Miria Dover's receipt. 

Among other things, we came into a beautiful closet of old Chin.i, 
which, 1 am shocked to say, is all destroved by my preserving. The 
bullaces and damsons fomented, and blew up a great. jar with a 
violent shock that smashed all the tea and coffee cups, and left 
nothing but the handles hanging in rows on the tenter-hooks. Hut 
to a resigned spirit there's always some comfort in calatnities, and if 
the preserves work and foment so, there's some hope that my beer 
will, as it has been a month next Monday in the mash-tub. As for 
the loss of the elder-wine, candour compel^ me to say it was my own 
fault for letting the poor blind little animals crawl into the copper; 
but experience dictates next year not to boil the berries and kittens at 
the same time. 

I mean to attempt cream cheese as soon as v/e can get cream, — but 
as yet we can't drive the Cows home to be milked for the Bull — he 
has twice hunted Grace and m ; into fits, and kept my poor M^tlier a 
whole morning in the pi;4scye. As 1 know you like country dclieacies, 
you will receive a p>iund of my fresh butter when it comes, and I 
mean to add a cheese as soon as 1 can get one to stick together. I 
shall send also some family pork for Governess, of our own killin^j;, 
as we wring a pig's neck on Saturday. I did hope to give you the 
unexpected treat of a home-made loaf, but it was forgot in the oven 
from ten to six, and so too black to offer. However, I hope to sur- 
prise you with one by Monday's carrier. Anastasia bids me add .->i:e 
will send a nosegay for respected Mrs Tombleson, if the plants don't 
die off before, which I am sorry to say is not improbable. 

It's really shocking to see the failure of her cultivated taste, and 
one in particular, that must be owned a very pretty idea When we 
came, there was a vast number of flower rootb, but jumbled without 
any regular order, till Anastasia trowelled them all up and set them in 
again, in the quadrille figures. It must have looked sweetly eleg .nt, 
if it had agreed with them, but they have all dwindled and drooped 
like deep declines and consumptions. Her dahlias and tulips too 
have turned out nothing Imt onions and kidney-potatoes, and her 
ten-week stocks ha\e not come ud in twenty. But as Shakespeare 
says. Adversity is a precious toad — that teaches i;s Patience is u 
je.vel. 

Considering the unsettled state of coming in, I must conclude, but 



THE PUGS LEY PAPERS. 



389 



could not resist giving your friendliness a short account of the happy 

change that has occurred, and our increase of comforts. I would 

write more, but I know 

you will excuse my ]ist< n- 

in.: to the calls of dumb 

animals. It's the time I 

alvvHxs scald the little 

pigs' bread and milks, 

iind put saucers of clean 

water for the ducks and 

g ese. There are the 

fowls' beds to make with 

ir hh s raw, and a hun- 

cired simil.ir things th 

country (. eopleareobli^ 

to think of 

The children, I im 
h ippy to say, are all \\q\\ 
only baby is a little ti ic 
tious, we think r m 
Grace setting him dc wn 
in the nettles, and he was 
short-co;ited list week. 
Grace is poorly with 1 
cold, and Anastnsia his 
got a sore throat, Irom 
sitiing up fruitless!) m "~ 

the orchard to he .r the 
nightingale ; — perhaps 
there may not be any in the Fens. 
rheumatism myself, but it m.iv be only a stiffness from so much churn- 
ing, and the great family wash-up of ever} thing we had directly we 
cmie down, for the s (ki- of grass-ble.icliing on the laun. Wiih tliese 
ex' cpiions. we are ail m perlcct health and happmess, and unite in 
love, with dear Mis^ Jemima's affectionate friend, 

Dorothy Pugsley. 







Very Fond of Gardening. 

I seem to have a triiling: a£;ue and 



No. V. — From Mrs PUGSLEY to Mrs Mumford. Biicklersbury. 

My DEAR Martha, — In my ultim.-.tum I informed of old Wriggles- 
worth pa\ing his natural debts, and of the whole JNIiddlefen estate 
commg from Lincolnshire to f'arl)ican. I charged Mr P. to stnd 
builetm;;;s into you with progn ssive reports, but between sisters, as I 
kiiOw y(ju are veiy curious, I am going ti; make myseif more particular. 
1 lake the opportunity of the iamily l;ein.i^ all re=tive in bed, and the 
huu.->c all still, to give an account of our moving. The things all got 
here safe, with tlie exception of the ( rocktry and Glass, which came 
aown Willi the dresser, about an hour after its arrival. Perhaps if we 
haan't overloaded it uith the whole of our breakabies.it wouldn't have 
•.■nen way, — as it is, we have only one plate lett, and that's chipt, and 
a mug without a spout to keep ifin countenance. Our furniture, &;c., 



'390 



THE PUGS LEY PAPERS. 



came by the waggon, and I am sorrv to sny a poor family at the same 
tim , and the little idle boys with their knives have carved and scari- 
tuii \w) rosewood legs, and, what is worse, not ot the same patterns : 
luit as people say, two Lincolnshire rtuio\es are as bad as a fire of 
London. ^ 

The first thing I did on coming do-vn, was to see to the sweeps 
going up,— but I wish I had been less precipitous, for the sooty 
wretches stole four good flitches of bacon, as was up the kitchen 
chiml)ly, quite unbeknown to mo. We liive filled up the vacancy 
with more, which smoke us dreaLifuUv, but what is to be cured must 
be endured. My next thmg was to have all holes and corners 
cleared out, and washed, and scrubbed, being left, like bachelor's 

places, in a sad state by old single W ; for a rich man, 1 never 

saw one that wanted so much cleaning out. There were he: ps of 
dung about, as high as ha\ stacks, and it cost me five shillini;s a load 
to h iveit all carted oil the premises ; besides heaps of good-for-nothing 
1 ttering straw, that 1 gave to the boys for bonfires. We are not all 
to rights yet, but Rome wasn't built in St Thomas's dny. 

It was providential I hampered myself with cold provisions, for 

exce[)t the bacon there were no eatables in the house. What old W 

lived upon is a mysterv, except salads, for we found a wht'le field of 
beet-root, which, all but a few plants for Dorothy to pickle, 1 h;id 

chucUed nwav. As 



j>^^ 







fes 



the ground was then 
clear for sowing up 
a cro|3, I directed 
George to plough it 
up, but he met with 
agricultural distress. 
He says as soon as 
he whipped his 
horses, the plough 
stuck its nose in the 
earth, and tumbled 
over head and heels. 
It seems very odd 
when ploughing is so 
easy to look at. but 
I trust he will do 
better in time. Ex- 
perience makes a 
King Solomon of a 
Tom noddy. 

I expect we shall 
have bushels ujion 
bushels of corn, tho' 
sadly pecked by the 
birds, as I have had 
The Rake's Pro-r-ss. ^-^ ^^le scarecrovvs 

taken down for fear of the children dreaining of them for Bodies. For 
the same dear little sakes I have had the well filled up, and the nasty 



THE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 



39r 



sharp iron spikes drawn out of all the rakes and harrows. Nobody 

shall say to my teeth, I am not a pood Mother. With these pre- 
cautions I trust tlie young ones will enjoy the country when the 
^iusies have left, but tiU then, I conrtne thi m to round the house, as 
it's no use shutting the stable door after you've had a child stole. 

We have a good many tine fields of hay, which I mean to have 
reaped directl}'. wet or shine ; for delays are as dangerous as pickles in 
gl zed pans. Perhaps St Swithin's is m our favour, for if the stacks 
are put up d impisn they won't catch fire so easily, if Swing should 
come intn these parts. The poor boys have made themselves very 
industrious in shooting off the birds, and hunting away all the ver- 
nun. besides culling down trees. As I knew it was profitable to fell 
timiier, 1 directed them to begin with a very ugly straggling old 
hollow tree next the premises, but it fell the wrong way, and knocked 
down the cow-house. Luckily the poor animals were all in the clover 
field at the time. George says it wouldn't have haiipened but for a 
violent sow, or rather sow-west, — and its likely enough, but it's an ill 
wind that blows nothing to nobody. 

Having writ last post to Mr P , I have no occasion to make you 

a country commis- 
sioner. Anastasia, 
indeed, wants to have 
books about every- 
thing, but for my 
]->art and Dorothy's 
we don't put much 
fiith in authorised 
receipts and direc- 
tions, but trust more 
to nature and com- 
mon sense. For in- 
stance, in fatting a 
<:oose, reason points 
to sage and onions, 
— \\ hy our own don't 
thrive on it, is very 
mysterious. We have 
a beautiful poultry 
}ard, only infested 
witli rats, — but I 
have made up a poi- 
son, that, I know 
bv the fjoor ducks, 
V ill kill them if they 
eat it. 

1 expected to send 
you a quantity of 
wall-fruit, for preserving, and am sorry you bought the brandy before- 
h:>nd. as it has all vanished in one night by picking and stealing, not- 
withstanding 1 had ten dozen of bottles broke on purpose to stick atop 
of the wall. But I rather think they came over the pales, as George, 




Wall Fruit. 



392 



THE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 



who is very thoughtless, had driven in all the new tenter hooks with 
the points down a a ids. Our apples and pears would have gone too, 
but luckily we heard a noise in the dark, and thrt-w brickbats out of 
window, that alarmed the thieves by smashing the cowcumber frames. 
However, 1 mean on Monday to mdce sure of tlie orchard, by gaiher- 
ing the tree-5, — a pheasant in one's hand is worth two cock-S|'arrows 
in a hush. One ccniifort is, the house-dog is very vicious, and won't 
let any of us stir in or out after dark — indeed, nothing can be more 
furious fxcept the bull, and at me in particular. You would think he 
knew my inward ihoughts, and th.it I intend to have him roasted 
whole when wi; give our grand house-warming regalia. 

With these particulars, I remain with love, my dear Donas, your 
affectionate sister, . BELINDA PuGSLEY. 

P.S. — I have only one anxiety here, and thnt is, the likelihood of 
being taken violently ill, nine miles off from ;in\ physic d powers, with 
nobody that can ride in the house, .^nd nothing but an insurmount.ible 
liunting horse in tiic stable. I should like, therefore, to be well cioclor- 
stuff'd troin Apotht cari. s' Hall, by the waggon or any other vehicle. 
A stitch in the side taken in time saves nine spasms. Doroths's 
tincture of the ihub..rb stalks in the gardeii doesn't answer, and it's a 
pity now they were not saved for pics. 



Miiiii 




A Coolness between Friends. 



No. Vl.— Ffom Mrs PUGSLEY io Mrs Rogers. 
Madam. — Although warmth has made a coolness, and our having 
words has caused a silence, yet as mere writing is not being on speak' 



THE PUGSLEY PAPERS, 393 

ino terms, and disconsolate parents in the case, I waive venting of 
a:ii(ni)sities till a more : ;;ree.ii)le moment. Having perns^d tlie 
afflicied idvertis-.-ment in tne Tinies, with interesting description ol 
person, and inetTectual d'agging ot New River, — beg leave to say that 
iM.ister Robert is safe and well, — having arri\ed here on Saturday 
night last, with almost not a shoe to his foot, and no coat at all, as 
was supposed to be wiih the anprobation of parents. It appears that, 
not supposing the distance between the families extended to him, lie 
walked ihe whole way down on the footing of a friend, to visit my son 
Richard, but liearing the newspapers read, quitted suddenlv, the s 'me 
day witii the gipsies, and we haven't an idea what is become of hnn. 
Trusting this st.itement wul relieve of all anxiety, remain, Madam, 
your humble Servant, BELINDA PUGSLEY, 

No. VII. — To Mr Silas Pugsley, Parisian Depdt, Shorediich. 

Dear Urdther, — My favour of the present d ite, is to advise of 
mvsaie arrival on Wedn- sday night, per opposition coach, after ninety 
miles of discomfort, aos 'iuiely unrivalled for cheapness, and a waik 
ol five miles more, through lanes and roads, that for dirt and slud;_;e 
may conhdently defy competition, — not to mention turnings and wind- 
ings, too numerous to particularise, but mor dly impossible to pursue 
on unde^■ialing prineiides. The ni:.;ht was of so dark a quality as ior- 
bade hnding the i^ate, but for the house-dog flying upon me by mis- 
t'ke for the late respeciable proprietor, and almost tearing my clotiies 
off my back by his strenuous exertions to obtam the favour of my 
patronage. 

Conscientiously averse to the fallacious statements, so much indulged 
in by various competitors, truth urges to acknowledge that on arrival, 
1 did not find things on such a footing is to ensure nniveisa] satisfaction. 
Mrs P., indeed, differs in her statement, but you know \\^^\ success 
ah'-ays surpassed the most sanguine expectations. Ever emulous to 
mtrit commendation by tlie strictest regard to prmcipl s of economy, 
I found her l.iid up with lumbago, through her studious efforts to please, 
and Doctor Clarke of Wi^beach in the house prescribing for it, but I 
am sorry to add — no abatement. Dorothy is also confined to her bed, 
by her unremitting assiduity and attention in the housekeeping line, 
and Anastasia the same, Irom listening ^or nighting des, on a tine Juiy 
evening, but which is an article not always to be warranted to kee > its 
virtue in any climate,— the other children, large and small sizes, ditto, 
ditto, with Grace too ill to serve in the nursery, — and the rest of the 
serv ints totally unable to execute such extensive demands. Sui h an 
unprecedented depreciation in health makes me doubt the qudity of 
cuuntrs air, so much recommended for tamily use, and whether consti- 
tutions have not more eligibility to offer that have been regularly town- 
made. 

Uur new residence is a large lonely Mansion, with no connexion 
with any other House, but standing in the he-ai of Lincolnshire tens, 
ov<r .viiich it looi;s through an advantageous onei ing ; comprisin;^ a 
gr-^a.t variety of windmills, and drains, and willow-polhiids, ;ind .in 
extenjive as.-.orlmeiit of similar ariicles, that are not muci^ calculated • 



394 THE PUGSLEY PAPERS. 

to invite inspection. In warehouses for coin, &c., i' probahly presents 
unusual advantages to the occupier, but candour compels to state that 
agriculture in this imrt of Lini;oliishirc is very flat. To supply lan:4uage 
on the most moderate terms, unex ntipled distress in Spitalfields is 
nothing to t!ie distress in <nirs. The corn has been deluged with r;iin 
of rciiutikable duriliihiy, without being able to wash the smut out of 
its e rs ; .md with regard to the exnected great rise in hay, our stacks 
li r> e oeen burnt down to the .c^round, inste id of g ing to the consumer. 
If the hounds hadn't been out, we mi-;ht liave fetch'd the engines, but 
tlie liimier thri w George on his head, and he only revived to be sensible 
th It tlie entire stock nad been disposed of at an immense sacrifice. 
The whole amount I feir will be out of book, — as the Norwich Union 
reiuses t" liquidate the hay, on the ground that the policy was voided 
by the impolicy of pulling it up wet. In other articles I am sorry I 
must write no alteration. Our bull, after killing ihe Jiouse-dog, and 
tossing William, has gone wild and had them<idness to run away from 
his livelihood, and, what is worse, all the cows after him — except those 
th..t had burst themselves in the clover field, and a small dividend, as 
I may say, of one in the pound. Another item, ihe pigs, to save bread 
and milk, have been turned into the woods for acorns, and is an article 
producing no returns — as not one has yet come bnck. Poultry ditto. 
Sedulously cultivatin:^ nn enlarged connexion in the Turkev line, such 
the antipathv to giusies, the whole breed, geese and ducks inclusive, 
removed themselves from the premises by night, directly a strolling 
camp came aiui set up m the neighbourhood. To avoid prolixity, when 
I c.ime to take stock, there was no stock to take — naniely, no eggs, no 
butter, no cheese, no corn, no hav, no bread, no beer— no uater even — 
nothing but the mere commodious premises, and fixtures, and goodwill 
■ — ind candour compels to add, a very small quantity on hand of the 
last-named particular. 

To add to stagnation, neither of my two sons in the business nor the 
two apprentices have been so diligently punctual in executing country 
orders with despatch and fidelity, as laud ble ambition desires, but 
have gone about fishing and shooting— and Willi .m has suffered a loss 
of three fingers, by his unvarying system of high charges. He and 
Richard are likewise both threatened with prosecution for trespassing 
on the Hares in the adjoining landed interest, and Nick is obHged to 
decline any active share, by dfslocating his shoulder in climbing a tall 
tree for a tomtit. As for George, tho' for the first time beyond the 
circumscribed limits of town custom, he indulges vanity in such un- 
qu lilied pretensions to superiority of knowledge in farming, on the 
strength of his grandfather having belonged to the agricultural line of 
trade, as renders a wholesale stock of patience barely adequate lo meet 
its d'-mands. Thus stimulated to injudicious performance, he is as 
injurious to the best interests of the country as blight and mildew, 
and smut and rot, and glanders and pip. all combined in one texture. 
r>etvveen ourselves, the objects of unceasing endeavours, united with 
uncompromising integrity, have been assailed with so much deteriora- 
tion, as makes me huml^ly desirous of abridging sufferings, by resuming 
bu-iness as a Shoe Maner at the old-establislied House. If Clack dk 
Son, therefore, have not already taken possession, and respectfully 



A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 395 

inforiTied the vicinity, will thankfully pay reasonable compensation for 
lo^s of time and expense incurred by tlie birt^nin bein,: off. In case 
piiriies a. ree, I beg you will authorise Mr Robins to have the honout 
to dispose of the whole Lincolnshire concern, tho' the knocking down 
of Middlefcn Hall will be a severe blow on Mrs P. and family. 
Deprecating the deceitful stimulus of advertising arts, interest com- 
mands to mention, — desirable freehold estate and eligible investment 
— :ii)d sole reason for disposal, the proprietor going to the Continent. 
Ex;;mple suggests likew'se, a good country fur hunting for fox-hounds 
— a' d ;i prospect too extensive to put in a newspaper. Circumstances 
being renden d awkward by the untoward evt-nt of the running away 
of the cattle, &c., it will be best to say — "Tiie Stock to be taken ;is it 
stands ; " — .ind an addition;il favour will be politely conferred, and the 
same thankj'ully acknowledged, if the auctioneer will be so kind as 
iirin-^ tiie next market town ten miles nearer, and carry the coach and 
the waggon once a day past the door. Earnestly requesting early 
attention to the above, and with sentiments of, S:c., 

R. PuGSLEY, Sen. 

P.S. — Richard is just come to hand dripping and half dead out of the 
Nene. and the two apprentices all but drowned tach other in saving 
him. Hence occurs to add, fishing opportunities among the desirable 

items. 

A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT* 

Squampash Flatts, gth November 1827. 

Dear Brother, — Here we are, thank Providence, safe and well, 
and in the finest country you ever saw. At this moment I have Ijelo-e 
me the sublime expanse of Squampash Flatts— the majestic Mudibuo 
winding throujh the midst — with the ma:_;nificent range of the Squab 
mountains in the distance. But the prospect is impossible to describe 
in a letter ! I might as woU attempt a Panorama in a pill-box ! 

We have fixed our Settlement on the left bank of the river. In 
crossing the rapids we lost most of our heavy baggage and all our 
ironwork, but by great good fortune we saved Mrs Paisley's grand 
piano and the children's toys. Our infant city consists of three log 
hut> and one of clay, which however, on the second day, fell in to tht 
ground landlords. We have now built it up again ; — and, all things 
considered, are as comfortable as we could expect — and have christened 
our settlement New London, in compliment to the Old Metropolis.. 
We have one of the lo.uhouses to ourselves — or at least sha'l hav 
v/iien we have built a new hogstye. We burnt down the fir''* %/«. 
in making a bonfire to keep off the wild beasts, and for the present 
the piL'S are in the parlour. As yet our rooms are rather usefully than 
ele /antly furnished. We have gutted the Grand Upright, and it 
makes a convenient cupboard,— the chairs were obliged to blaze at 
our bivouacs, Vjut thank Heaven we have never leisure to sit down, 
2nd so do not mi^ss them. My boys are contented, and will be \\el| 
when they have got <rver some awkward accidents in lopping and fell* 
* Comic Annual, l8ja 



396 



A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 



insr. Mrs P. gruml)les a little, but it is her custom to lament most 
when she is in the midst of comff)rts. She complains of solitude, and 
says slia could-cnjoy the very sLiffest of stiff visits. 




A Stiff Vi.-,it. 



The first time we lighted a fire in our new abode, a large serpent 
rame down the chimney, which I looked upon as a <;ood omen. 
However, as Mrs P. is not partial to snakes, and the heat is supposed 

5 1 V.siS*fc'S^.-'',|il ) H*--^ 




Emigration — Meeting a Settler. 

to attract those reptiles, we have disper.sed wiiii fires ever since, A. 
ior u lid beasts, we hear them hovvimg and roaring round the fen ^. 



A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 395f 

every nigb.t from duk till dayli.iihl, but we have only becfc incon- 
venienced by one Lion The tirst time he came, in order i\ get rid 
ot the brute peaceably, we turned out an old ewe, with which he was 
»vell satistic d ; — but ever since he cumes to us as regular as clock- 
work for his mutton ; and if we do not soon contrive to cut his 
acquaintance, we sliall hardly have a sheep in the flock. It would 
have been easy to shoot him, being well provided with muskets, but 
Barnaby mistook our remnant of gunpowder for onion seed, and 
sowed it all in the kitchen garden. We did try to trap him into a 
pitfall ; but after twice catching Mrs P., and every one of the children 
in turn, it was given up. They are now, however, perfectly at ease 
about the animal, for they never stir out of doors at all, and to make 
them quite comfortable, I have blocked up all the windows and bar- 
ricaded the door. 

We have lost only one of our number since we came ; namely, 
Diggory, the market gardener, from Glasgow, who went out one 
morning to bot.^nise, . nd never came back. I am much surprised at 
his a.bsconding, as he had nothing but a spade to go off with. Chip- 
pendale, the carpenter, was sent after him, but did not return ; and 
Gregory, the smith, has been out after lliem these two days. I 
have just despatched Mudge, the herdsmm, to look for all three, 
and hope he v\ ill soon gi\e a good account oi tnem, as they are tha 
niDSt useful men in the whole settlement, and, in fact, indispensable 
to its existence. 

The river Mudiboo is deep and rapid, and said to swarm with 
alligators, though I have heard but of three being seen at one time, 
and none of those above eighteen feet long ; thi^, however, is im- 
material, as we do not use the river fluid, winch is thick and dirty, 
but draw all our water from natural wells and tanks, Poisonous 
springs are rather common, but are easih distmguished by contain- 
ing no fisii or living anim d. Tliose, however, which swarm with 
fnjgs, toads, newts, efts, &c., are harmless, and nuxy be safely used for 
culinary puiposes. 

In short, 1 know 'of no drawback but one, wli;ch, I am sanguine, 
may be got. over hereaft. r, and do earnestly h. pe nnd advise, if 
things are no better in Engl.md than when I left, ^ou, and as many 
as you can persuade, will sell off all, and come over to this African 
Paradise. 

The drawback I speak of is tliis : although I have never seen anv 
one of the creatures, it is too certain that the mountains ,ire inhabited 
by a race of Monkeys, whose cunning and mischievous talents exceed 
even the most incredible stories of their tribe. No human art or 
vi-ilance seems of avail ; we have planned ambuscades, and waiched 
night after night, but no attempt has been made ; yet the moment 
the guard was relaxed, we were striped without mercv. I am con- 
vinced they must have had spies night and day on our motions, yet 
so secretly and cautiously, that no glimpse of one has yet been seer 
by any of our people. Our last crojj was cut and carried off with the 
precision of an English harvesting. Our spirit stores — (you will be 
am zed to hear that these creatures pick locks with the dexteritv of 
London burglars) — have been broken open and ransacked, though 



598 SONNET ON STEAM. 

half the establishment were on the watch : and the brutes have been 
off to their mountains, five miles distant, vMthout even the dogs 
eiving an ahirm. I could almost persu.idc- myself at times, such are 
their supernatural knowledge, swiftness and invisibility, that we have 
to contend with evil soirits. I long for your advice, to refer to on 
this subject, and am, dear Philip, your loving brother, 

Ambrose Mawe. 

P.S. — Since writing the above, you will be CDrcerned to hear the 
body of poor Dii^gory has been found, horribly m m^led by wild 
bensts. The fate of Chippendale, Grej^orv. and Mudge is no longer 
doubtful. The old Lion has brou.;ht the Liones, and the sheep 
being all gone, the\' have made a joint itiack upon the Bullock-house. 
The Mudiboo has overflow ed, and Squimpash Fiatts are a swamp. 
I have just dis' overcd that the Monkeys are my own rascals that I 
brought out from England. Wc are cumins; back as fast as we caa* 



SONNET ON STEAM. 

BY AN UNDER-OSTLER.* 

I WISH I livd a Thowsen year Ago 

Wurkin;^ for Sober six and Seven milers . 

And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo 

The Orsis cum in Them days to the ihlers 

But Now by meens of Powers of Steem forces 

A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels 

The Biiers seam a Gumming to the Orses 

And Helps and nnggs Will sune be out of Vittels 

Poor Bruits I vvunder How we bee to Liv 

When suich a change of Orses is our Faits 

No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv 

May them lilowd ini^ins all Blow up their Grate* 

And Theaves of Osiers crib the Coles and Giv 

Tbeir blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits 1 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



fiS^^^^ 



399 




Soap orifics and Sii'i-onhc^. 



A REPORT FROM BELOW* 

" Blow liigh, blow 1. w." — Sea Sons. 

As Mister B. and Mistress B. 

One niglit were sitting down to tea, 

With toast and muffins hot — 

They heard a lotid and sudden bounce, 

'i'hat made the very china flounce, 

They could not for a time iironouuce 

If they were safe or shot — 

For iVIemiiry briaight a deed to match 

At Deptford done by night — 

Before one eye appear'd a Patch 

In t'other eye a L'iight ! 

To be belaboiir'd out of life, 

Without some small attempt at strife, 

Our nature will not grovel ; 

One impulse moved both man and dam^ 

He stiztd the tongs — she did the same, 

Leavmg the ruffian, if he came, 

The poker and the shovel. 

* Comic Annual, iSto. 



400 A REPORT FROM BELOW. 

Suppose the couple stnnding so, 
V hen rushinej footsteps f:om below 
^lade pulses fast and fervent, 
And first burst in the frantic cat, 
All steamiii.; like a brewer's vat, 
And then— as white ;is my cravat — 
Poor Mary May, the servant! 

Loid, how the couple's teeth did chatter I 

Master and mistress both tlew nt liei, 

" Speak ! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter ?* 

Till Mary, gettin,£j breath. 

Upon her tale beg in to touch 

With rapid tongue, full trotung, such 

As if she thouglit she had too much 

To tell before her death : — 

*We was both, Ma'am, in the washhouse, Ma'am, a-stand:n;; at oui 

tubs, 
And Mrs Round wis seconding what little things T rubs ; 
' Mary,' siys she to me, ' I say,' — ,md there sht- stops for coughin', 
'Tliat dr.itted copper flue h.is took to smokin' very oti-n, 
But please the pig^,' — for that's her way of swearing in a p.ission, 
'I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin' in this f isliion !' 
Well, down she takes my master's horn — I mean liis luirn for loading, 
And em;'ties e\ery grain alive for to set the tiue exploding. 
' Lawk, Mrs Round !' says I, and stares, 'that quantum is unproper ; 
I'm s irtin sure it can't n( t take a pound to sky a copper ; 
You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, wiili its puff;' 
But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. 
Well, when the pinch is over — 'Teach your grandmother to suck 
A powder-horn,' says she. — ' We'll,' says I, ' I wish you luck.' 
Tliem words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 
'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside youi 

lips ; 
Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these ; 
I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.' 
So in it goes, and bounce — O Lord ! it gives us such a rattle, 
I thought we both wtrc canonized, like Sogers in a battle ! 
Up i;oes the copper like a .squib, and us on both our backs, 
And bless the tui)s, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. 
Well, there I tainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, 
But Providence was kmd, and brou:^ht me to with scalding water. 
1 first looks round for Mrs Round, and sees her at a distance. 
As stiff as starch, and look'd as dead as anything in existence, 
All scorch'd and grimed ; and more than that. I sees the copper slap 
Ri:_;ht on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. 
Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, 
As humanity pints out, and burnt h^r nostrums \\ ith a feather; 
But for all as I can do to restore her to her mortaUty, 
She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. 



A REPORT FROM BELOW. 



40X 



Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother. 
Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other : 
So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, 
L:nvk, sich a shirt ! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it ; 
Oh ! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin' ; 
Here lays a leg, and there a leg — I mean, you know, a stocking — 
Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tatter'd skirt. 
And : rms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotch'd and black with 

dirt ; 
But as nobody was in 'em — none but — nobody was hurt! 
Well, there 1 am, a-scrambhng up the things, all in a lump, 
When, mercy on us ! such a groan as makes my heart to jump ; 
And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of e\e, 
A-stanng .it the washhouse roof, laid open to the sky: 
'Then she beckons with a finger, rind so down to her I reaches, 
And puts iii\ ear ac'in her mouth to hear her dying speeches. 
For, poor soul! she has 1 husband and young orphans, as I knew; 
Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel f.ict and true, 
But these words is all she whisper'd — ' Why, where is tha powder 

blew?'" 




• Skying a Copper." 



2 C 



402 







"If the Coach goes at six, piay what time goes the Basket?" 



rJI£ LAST SHILLING* 

HE was evidently a foreigner, and poor. As I sat at the opposite 
corner of the Southgate stage, I took a mental inventory of his 
wardrobe. A military cloak much the worse for wear — a blue coat, 
the worse for tear— a napless hat — a shirt neither white nor brown — a 
pair of mud-C(;lour gloves, open at each thumb — grey trousers too 
short for his legs — and bro.vu boots too long for his feet. 

From some words he uropt, I found that he had come direct from 
Paris, to undertake the duties of French teacher at an English 
academy ; and his companion, the English classical usher, had been 
sent to London, lo meet and conduct him to his suburban destination. 

Poor devil ! thought I, thou art going into a bitter bad line of busi- 
ness ; and the hundredth share which I had taken in the boyish 
persecutions of my own French master — an emigr^ of the old noblesse 
—smote violently on my conscience. At Edmonton the coach 
stopped. The coachman alighted, pulled the bell of a mansion in- 
scribed in large letters, Vespasian House ; and deposited the 
t'oreigner's trunks and boxes on the footpath. /The English classicaJ 
* Comic Annual, 1833. 



THE LAST SHILLING. 403 

dsher stepped brislcly out, and deposited a shilling in the coachman's 
anticipatory hand. Monsieur followed the example, and with some 
precipitation prepared to enter the gate of the fore-garden, but the 
driver sti^od in the way, 

" I want another shillinc;," said the coachman. 

"You agreed to take a shilling a head," said the English master. 

" You said you would take one shilling for my head," said the 
French master. 

" It's for til'' lugga,f:;e,'' said the coachman. 

The Frenchman seemed thunderstruck ; but there was no help for 
it. He pulkd out a small weazle-bellied, brown silk purse, but there 
was nothing in it save a medal of Napoleon. Then he felt his breast- 
pockets, then his side-pockets, and then his \\ aistcoat-pockets ; but 
they were all empty, excepting a metal snuff-box, and that was empty 
too. Lastly he lelt the pockets in the flaps of his coat, taking out a 
meagre would-be white handkerchief, and shaking it ; but not a dump. 
I rather suspect he anticipated the result — but he went through the 
operations seriatim, with the true French gravity. At last he turned 
to his companion, with a " Mistare Barbtere, be as good to lend me 
one shelling," 

Mr Barber thus appealed to, went through something of the same 
ceremony. Like a blue-bottle cleaning itself, he passed his hands 
o\er his breast — roimd his hips, and dcwn the outside of his thighs, — 
but the sense of feeling could detect notliing like a coin. 

" Ydu agreed for a shilling, and you shrdl have no more," said the 
man with empty pockets, 

" No— no — no — you shall have no mor," said the moneyless French- 
man. 

By this time the housemaid of Vespasian House, tired of standing 
with the door in her hand, had come down to the j^arden-gate, and, 
wiUin- to make herself generally useful, laid her hand on one of the 
foreigner's trunks. 

" It shan't go till I'm paid my shilling," said the coachman, taking 
hold of the handle at the other end. 

The good-natured housemaid instantly let go of the trunk, and 
seemed suddenly to be bent double by a violent cramp, or stitch, in 
her right side, — while her hand groped busily under her gown. Bui 
it was in vain. There was nothing in that pocket but some curl- 
papers, and a brass thimble. 

The stitch or cramp then seemed to attack her other side ; again 
she stooped and tumbled, while Hope and Doubt struggled togethei 
on her rosy face. At last Hope triumphed, — from the extremest cornci 
of the huge dimity pouch she fished up a solitary coin, and thrust i) 
exultingly into the obdurate palm. 

" It won't do," said the coachman, casting a wary eye on the metal, 
and holding out for the inspection of the trio a silver-washed corona- 
tion medal, which had been purchased of a Jew for twopence the yeai 
before. 

The poor girl quietlv set down the trunk which she had again taken 
up, and restored the deceitful medal to her pocket. In the meantime 
the arithmetical usher had arrived at the gate in his way out, bu/ waj 



4Q4 THE LAST SHILLING. 

Slopped by the embargo on the luggaj^^e. " What's the matter now?" 
asked the mr.n of fi^'ures. 

" If \ou please, sir/' said the housemaid, dropping a low curtsey, 
" it's this impudent fellow of a coachman will stand here for his 
rigiits." 

'" He wants a shilling mr^re than his fare," said Mr Barber. 

" He does want more than liis fare ahilling," reiterated the French- 
man. 

" Coachman ! what the devil are we waiting here for?" shouted a 
stentmian voice from the rear of the stage. 

" Bless me, John, are we to stay here all day ?" cried a shrill voice 
from the stage's interior. 

" If you don't get up sliortly I shall get down,'' bellowed a voice 
from the box. 

At this crisis the English usher drew his fellow-tutor aside, and 
whispered something in his ear that made liim go tlirou;_;h the old 
manual exercise. He slanped his pant iloons — flapned his coat-tails 
— and felt about his bosom. " I liaven't got one," said he, and with a 
shake of the head and a hurried bow, he set olf at the pace of a two- 
penny postman. 

" I a'n't going to stand here all day," said the coachman, getting 
out of all reasonable patience. 

"You're an infernal scoundrelly villain," said Mr Barber, getting 
out of all classical Eiiglish. 

''You are a — what Mr Barber savs," said the foreigner. 

"Thank God and his goodness," ejaculated the housemaid, " here 
comes the Doctor;" and the portly figure of the pedagogue himsell 
came striding pompously down the gra\'el-vvalk. He had two thick 
lips and a double chin, which all began v.au'gmg together. 

" Well, well ■ what's all this argumentative elocution ? I command 
taciturnity !" 

" I'm a shilling short," said the coachman. 

" He says he has got one short shilling," said the foreigner. 

"Poo — poo— poo," said the thick lins and double-chin. " Pay the 
fellow his superfluous claim, and appeal to magisterial authority." 

•' It's what we mean to do, sir," said the English usher, "but" — 
and he laid his lips mysteriously to the Doctor's ear. 

"A pecuniary bagatelle," said the Doctor. " It's palpable extortion, 
— but I'll disburse it, — and you have a legislatorial remedy for his 
avaricious d-'mands." As the man of pomp said this, he thrust his 
fore-finger into an empty waistcoat pocket — then into its fellow — and 
then into every pocket he had — but without any other product than a 
bunrh of keys, two ginger lozenges, and the French mark. 

"It's ver\ peculiar " said the Doctor; "I had a prepossession of 
ha- ing currency to that amount. The coachman must call to-morrow 
for it at Vtspasian House — or stay — I perceive mv housekeeper. Mrs 
Plummer ! pray just step hither and liquidate this little commercial 
obligation." 

Now, whether Mrs Plummer had or had not a shilling, Mrs Plum- 
mer only knows ; for she did not condescend to make any search for 
it, — and if she had none, she was right not to take the trouble. How- 



THE LAS'I SIIILLIXG. 



405 



ever, she attempted to carry the point by a coup dc main. Snatching 
up one of the boxes, she motioned the housemaid to do tlic likf, ex. 
claiming in a shrill treble key, — " Here's a pretty work indeed, aboui 
a paltry shilling ! If it's worth having, it's worth calling again for.. 
■ — and I suppose Vespasian House is not going to run away V 

" But may be / am/' said the inflexible coachman, seizing a trunk 
with each hand. 

'•John, I insist on being let out," scre.med the lady in the coach 
" I shall lie too late for dinner," roared the Thunderer in the dickey 
As for tlie passenger on the box, he had made off during the lattei 
part of the altercation. * 

" What shall we do ?" said the English classical usher. 

" God and his goodness only knows ! " said the housemaid. 

" I am a stranger in this country," said the Frenchman. 

" You must pay the money," said the coachman. 

"And here it is, you brute," said Mrs Plummer, who had made 
a trip to the house in the meantiriie ; but whether siic had ccir.ed it, 
or raised it by a subscription among the pupils, I know no more than 




The M.m ill the Moon. 



4o6 




Fancy Pcirtrait :— M Brunei. 



ODE TO M. BRUNEI* 

"Well said, old IMoIe ! canst work i' the dark so fest? a worthy pinpeer ! — HamUt 

Well ! — Monsieur Brunei, 
How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, 
To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends 
Of Rotherhithe and Wapping ? 

Never be stopping, 
But pokinLC, groping, in the dark keep making 
An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gud;^eons, 
For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons, 
To cross tiie water in inverse proportion, 
Walk under steamboats under the keel's ridge, 
To keep down all e.xtorlion. 
And without sculls to diddle London Bridge! 
In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry, 
Thou didst to earth thy human terriers lollow, 
Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey, 

To give us the "View hollow." 
In short it was thy aim, right north and south. 
To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth ; 
Alas ! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when 
Old Thanitrs, tiirough roof not waterproof, 
Came, like '' a tide in the affairs of men," 

* Comic Annual, 1831. 



ODE TO M. BRUNEL. 

And with a mighty stormy kind of roar, 
Reproachful of thy wrong, 
Burst out in that old song 
Of Incledon's, beginning " Cease, rude Bore ! — *^ 
Sad is it, worthy of one's tears, 

Just when one seems the most successful, 
To tind one's self o'er head and ears 

In difficulties most distressful ! 
Other great speculations have been nursed, 

Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf; 
But thy concern was at the worst, 

When it began to liquidate itself ! 
But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, 
And languishes thy Tunnel,— so to paint. 
Under a slow incurable complaint, 

Bed-ridden ! 
Why, when thus Thames — bed-bother'd — why repine , 
Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine ! 
Yet let none think thee dazed, or crazed, or stupid ; 

And sunk beneath thy ov\-n and Thames's craft; 
Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid 

Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft ! 
I'll tell thee with tiiy tunnel what to do ; 
Light up tliy bo\-s, build a bin or two, 
The wine does better than such water trades : 

Stick up a sign— the sign of the Bore's Head; 

I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead. 
And make thy cellar subtcrrane, — Thy Shades i 



407 




The Broken Shaft. 



4o8 



A FLAN FOR WRITING BLANK VERSE IN Rm'ME 

IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR.* 

RESPECTED SIR, — In a morning paper justly celebrated for the 
acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight 
into character and motives — the Rhodian length of their leaps towards 
results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of 
Manx's dray-horses, — there appeared, a few days since, the following 
paragraph : — 

"Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall emaciated being, in a brown 
coat, indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the r. ggedness of 
which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligenue to his 
countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor. It 
was evident from his preliminary bow that he had made some disco- 
veries in the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordshiu, 
but the Lord Mayer perceiving by his accent that he had already sub- 
mitted his project to several of the leading Publishers, referred liim 
back to the same jurisdiction, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses 
withdrew, declaring by another bow, that he should offer his plan to 
the Editor of the Comic Annual." 

The unfortunate above referred to, sir, is myself, and with regard 
to the Muses, indeed a votary, though not a ^lo one, if the quilihca- 
tion depends on my pocket — but for the idea of audresiiing myself to 
the Editor of the " Comic Annual," I am indebted soI.l\ to the assump- 
tion of the gentlemen of the Press. That I have made a discovery is 
true, in common v/ith Hervey, and Herschell, and Galileo, and Roger 
Bacon, — or rather, I should say with Columlnis — my invention con- 
cerning a whole hemisphere, as it were, in the world of uoetry — in 
short, the whole continent of iDlank verse. To an iminen-;e number ot 
readers this literary land has been hitherto a complete terra incoi^nita, 
and from one sole reason, — the want of that harmony which makes 
the close of one line chime with the end of another. They have no 
relish for numbers that turn up blank, and wonder accordin^^ly at the 
.epithet of "Prize," prefixed to Poems of the kind which emanate in 
— I was going to say from — the University of Oxford. Thus many 
very worthy members of society are unable to appreci te the Paradise 
Lost, the Task, the Chase, or the Seasons, — the Wmicr especially — 
without rhyme. Others, again, can read the Poems in question, but 
with a limited enjoyment ; as certain persons can admire the archi- 
tectural beauties of Salisbury steeple, but would like it better with a 
ring of bells. For either of these tastes my discoverv will provide, 
without affronting the palate of any other ; fur although the lover of 
rhyme will find in it a prodigality hitherto unknown, the heroic cha- 
racter of blank verse will not suffer in the least, but each line will 
"do as it likes with its own," and sound as independently of the next 
as "milkmaid" and "water-carrier." I have the honour to subjoin 
* Comic Annual, 1832. 



A PLAN FOR WRITTXG BLANK VERSE IN RHYME, 409 

a specimen — nnd if, through your publicity, Mr Murray should be 

induced to make me an offrr Tor an Edition of " Paradise L> st '"' en this 

principle, for the 'Family Library, it will be an eternal oblii-^otion on. 

Respected Sir, vour most obliged, and humble servant, 

' ' ******* 



A NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 

Even is come ; and from the dark P.irk. hark, 
The signal of the settin.i^ sun — one >.un ! 
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time 
To go and see the Drury-Lnne Dane slain, — 
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — 
Or Macbeth raving at that bhade-made blade, 
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ; — 
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride 
Four horses as no other man can span ; 
Or in^he small Olymriic Pit, sit split 
Laughing at Liston, while vini quiz his phiz. 




A-lad-in, ct the Wonderful Lamp. 

Anon Night comes, and with her winiis l)rings things 
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young stmg ; 
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, 
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, 



4IO A LETTER FROM A MARKET GARDENER. 

About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, 
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs., 

Now thieves to enter tor your ca>h, sm ish, crash, 
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, 
But friL;hten'd by Policeman B 3, flee, 
And while they re going, whisper low, " No go !" 

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, 
And sleepers w. iking, grumble — " i)r.;t that cat !" 
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls 
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-wili. 




White Favours. 

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise 

In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor 

Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — 

But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-press'd, 

Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, 

And that she hears— wh it faith is man's ! — Ann's banns 

And his, from Reverend Mr Rice, twice, thrice : 

White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, 

That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes ! 



A LETTER FROM A MARKET GARDENER TO 
THE SECRETARY OF THE HORTICULTURAL 
SOCIETY* 

SIR, — The Satiety having Bean pleasd to Complement Me l^etore I 
beg Leaf to lie before Them agin as follow in particuiiers witch 
I hop They will luck upon with a Sowth Aspic. 
* Comic Annual, 1830. 



A LETTER FROM A MARKET GARDENER. 41 1 

Sir — last year I paid my Atentions to a Tater & the Satiety was 
pleasd to be gratifid at the Inniargement of my Kidnis. This ear 1 
have lurnd my Eyes to Gozberris. — I am h ippy to Say 1 have allmost 
sucksidid in I\l..king them too Big for Bottlin. I beg 10 Present sum 
of itci» kind — Pleas obsarve a Green Goose is larger in Siz then a Red 
Goosebry. Sir as to Cherris my atention has Bean cheafly occupid bv 
the Black Arts. Sum of them are as big as Ciicl<t Balls as will be seen 
I send a Sam; le tyed on a \V:iuking-5tick. I send lickwise a Potle of 
stray berris witch I hop will reach. They air so 1 irge as to object to 
lay more nor too in a Bed. Also a Potlo of Hobbies and one of my 
new Pins, of a remarkably sh.irp flaviour. I hop they will cum to 
Hand in time to be at your Feat. Respective Black red & White 
Currency 1 have growd equely Large, so as one Bunch is not to be Put 
into a Galley Pot without jammmg. My Pitciies has not ben Strong, 
and their is no Show on My Walls of the Plumb line. Damsins will 
Be moor Plentifle «jc their is no Want of common Bullies about Lunnon. 
Please inform if propper to classify the olow with the creepers. 
Concerning Graps I have bin recommanded bv mixing Wines with 
Warter Mellons, the later is improved in its juice — but have douts of 
the fack. Of the Patgonian Pickleing Coucumber, I hav maid Trial 
of, and have hups of Growmg one up to Markit by sitting one End 
agin my front dore. On account of its Proggressiveness I propos 
calling it Pickleus Perriginatus if Ai roved of. 

Sir, about Improving the common Stocks. — Of Haws I have some 
hops but am dispunding about my Hyps. I have quite faled in cul- 
tuv.iting them into Cr.imberris. I have allso atempted to Mull 
Blackberis, but am satisfid them & the Mulberris is of diferent Genius. 
Pleas observe of Aples I have found a Graftt of the common Crab 
from its Straglm sideways of use to Hispalliers. I should lick to be 
intourmd weather Scotch Granite is a variety of the Pom Granite & 
weather as sum say so pore a frute, and Nothing but Stone. 
Sir, — My Engine Corn has been all eat up by the Burds namely Rocks 
and Ravines. In like manner I had a full Shew of Pees but was 
distroyd by the Spareis. There as bean graie Mischef dun beside by 
EntymoUogy — in some parts a complet Patch of Blight. '1 heir has 
bean a grate De.il too of Robin by boys and men picking and stealing 
but their has bean so many axidents by Steel Traps 1 don't like setting 
on 'em. 

Sir I partickly wish the Satiety to be called to considder the Case 
what follows, as 1 think mite be maid Transaxtionable in the next 
Reports. — 

My Wif had a Tomb Cat that dyd. Being a torture Shell and a 
Grate feverit, we iiad Him bernd in the Guardian, and for the sake 
of inrichment of the Mould I had the carks d^poseted under the roots 
of a Gosberry Bush. The Frute being up till then of the smooth kind. 
But the next Seson's Frute alter the Cat was berrid, the Gozberris 
was all hairy. — & moor Remarkable the Catpiiers of the same bush, 
was All of the same hairy Dxsciiption. I am Sir Your humble 
servant THOMAS FRObT. 



DOMESTIC ASIDES; 



OR, TRUTH IN PARfeNTHESES. 



" I REALLY take it very kind, 
This vi>it, Mrs Skinner ! 
I have not seen you such an a^je. — 
(The wretch has come to dinrier !) 

" Your daughters, too, what loves of 

girls— 
What heads for painters' easels ! 
Come liere and kiss the infant, dears, — 
(And give it p'rhaps the measles !) 

" Your charming boys I see are home 
From Reverend Mr Russel's ; 
'Twas very kind to liring them both, — 
(What boots for my new Brussels !) 

•' What ! little Claia left at home? 
Well now I call tliat sliabby : 
I should have lo\cd to kiss her so, — 
(A flabby, dabby, babby !) 



" And Mr S., I hope he's well. 
Ah ! though he lives so handy, 
He never now drops in to su]), — 
(The better for our braniiy !) 

"Come, take a seat — T long to hear 

About Matilda's marriage ; 

You're come of couise to spend the 

day, — 
(Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage !) 

''What! must you go?— next time I 

hope 
You'll give me longer measure ; 
Nay, I shall see you down the stairs, — 
(With most uiicommon jileasure !) 

" Good-bye ! good -1 ye ! rcmeraberall, 
Next time you'll take your dinners! 
(Now, David, minil I'm nut at home 
In futiue to the Skinners ! ") 




A Moderate Income 
* Comic Annual, 1831, 



4X3 



THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD.* 



I ONCE, for a very short time indeed, had the honour of being a 
schoohiiaster, and was invested with the important office of 
"rearing the tender thou;_;ht," and "teaciiing ilie vDving: idea how to 
shoot ;" of educating in the principles of the Esialjlisi.ed Church, and 
lie-; owing the strictest attention to morals. The case was this : mv 

\o'.ing friend G , a graduate of Oxford, and an ingenious and 

wortiiy ni.iu, thought proper, some months back, to establish, or 
enoeavour to establish, an academy for young t'entlemen, in my 
iinm< diatt vicinity. He had already procured nine day-pupils to begin 
with, wiiom he himself taught, — prudence as yet prohi'uiting the em- 
ployment of Ushers, — when he was summoned hastily to attend upon 
a dymg relative in Hampshire, from whom he hnd some expectations. 
This Wcis a dilemma to poor G , who had no one to leave in charge 



'.-r^C- 



O/t^^/7 




A Branch Co^cb. 



nf his thr.-e classes ; and he could not bear the idea of playing truant 
himself so soon after commencing business. In his extrenut\ he 
applied to me as his forlorn hope, and one forlorn enouvh ; for ii is 
well knoun among my friends, that I have little Latin, and less Greek, 
* Cc'inic /\nnual, 18^2. 



41* THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD, 

and am, on every account, a worse accountant. I urged these objeo 

tions to G , but in vain, for he had no " friend in need," learned 

or unlearned, within any reasonable distance ; and, as he said to com- 
fort me, "in three or four days merely the boys could not unlearik 
much of anything." 

At last I gave way to his importunity. On Thursday night, he 
started from the tree of knowledge by a brunch coach ; and at nine 
on Friday morning, I found myself sitting at his desk in the novel 
character of pedagogue. I am sorry to say, not one of the boys played 
truant, or was confined at home with a violent illness. There they 
were, nine little mischievous wretches, gogt^lmg, titti ng, pointing, 
winking, grimacing, and mocking at authority, in a v\ay enough to 
invoke two Elisha bears out of .Southgate Wood. To put a stop to 
this indecorum, I put on my spectacles, stuck my cane upright in the 
desk, with the fool's-cap atop — but they inspired little terror ; worn 
out ..t last, 1 seized the cane, and rushing from my dais, well flogged 
— I believe it is called flogging the boy, a Creole, nearest me; who, 
though far fr;)m the biggest, was much more daring and impertinent 
than the rest. So far my random selection was judicious ; but it 
appeared afteiwarcis, that I had chastised an only son, whose mother 
had expressly stipulated for him an exemption from all punishment. 
I suspect, with the mord prudence of tond mothers, she had informed 
the little imp of the circumstance, for this Indian-Pickle fou;.;ht and 
kicked his preceptor as unceremoniously as he would have scuffled 
with Clack Diana or Agamemnon. My first move, however, had a 
salutary effect ; the urchins settled, or made believe to settle, to their 
tasks ; but 1 soon perceived that the genuine industry and application 
belonged to one, a clever-looking boy, who, with pen and paper before 
him. W..S silting at the further end of a long desk, as |j;reat a contrast 
to the otliers as the Good to the Bad Apprentice in Ho;;arth. I 
could see his tongue even at work z.t one corner of his mouth, — a 
ver-. cominon sign of boyish assiduitv, -and his eyes never left his 
task but occasionally to j^lance towards his master, as if in anticipa- 
tion if the ap; roving smile, to which he looked forward as the prize 
of n-.dustry. I had already selected him inwardly for a favourite, .aid 
resolved to devote my best abilities to his instruction, when 1 saw 
him hand the paper, with a sly glance, to his neighbour, from whom 
it passed rapidly down the desk, accompanied by a running titter, and 
sidelong looks, that convinced me the supposed copy was, indeed, a 
copy not of " Ol)ey your superiors," or " Age commands respect," but 
ol the head of the college, and, as a glimpse showed, a head with very 
huiicrous features. Being somewhat fati,L;ued with my last execution, 
I suffered the cane of justice to sleep, and inflicted the fools'-eap — 
literally the fool's — for no clown in pantomime, the great Giimakii not 
excepted, could have made a more laughter-stirring use of the costum". 
The little enormities, who only tittered before, now shouted outright, 
and nothing but the enchanted wand of bamboo could flap them into 
solemnity. Order was restored, for they saw I was, like liarl Grey, 
resolved to "stand by my order;" and while I was dcliber.ting in 
snme perplexity, ho a- to begin business, the two biggest boysc;me 
fo w rci voluntarily, and stmding as much as they could in a cucie, 



THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD. 



41S 



presented themselves, nnd began to re-.d as the tirst Greek class. 
Mr Irving may bnast of his prophets as much as he will ; but in pro- 
portion to num')ers of our congregations, I had far more reason to be 
proud ot my gabblers in an unknown tongue. I, of course, discovered 
no lapsus Hngua in the performance, and after a due course of gibberish, 
the hrst class dismissed itself with a brace of bows and an evident 
degree of self-satisfaction at being so perfect in the present, after being 
so imperfect in the past. I own this first act of our solemn farce made 
me rather nervous a-ainst tlie next, which proved to be the Latin class, 
and I iiave no doubt to an adept would have seemed as much a Latin 
comedy as those performed at the Wesimin^Ttcr School. We got 




A Second Course. 

through the second course quite correct, as before, and I found, with 
so lie satisfaction, thit the third was a dish of English Syntax, where 
1 was able to detect flaws, and the heaps of errors that I had to arrest 
m.ide me thoroughly sensible of the bliss of ignorance in the Gr elc 
and Latin. A general lesson in English reading ensued, throu:-;h 
which we glided smoothly enoui^h, till we came to a sandbank in the 
shaoe of a L.tin quotation, which I was requested to English. It w,:s 
something like this : — " Nemo mortalius omnibus hora sapit," which I 
rendered, "No mortal knows at what hour the omnibus starts" — and 
witn this translation the whole school was perfectly satisfied. Nine 
more bows. 

My horror now approached: I saw the little wretches lug out their 



4i6 



THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD. 



slates, and begin to cuff out the old sums, a sight that mide me wish all 
the slates at the roof of the house. I knew very well that when the 
army of nine attacked my Bonny-castle, it would not long hold out. 
Unluckily, from inexuerience, I z-wq them all the same question to 
work, and the consequence was, ea.h brought up a different result— 
nor would my practical knowledge of Practice allow me to jud^e of 
their merits. I had no res ai roe but, Lavater-like, to go by Physi- 
ognomy, and accordin.'ly selected tiie solution of the most mathe- 
matical-looking boy. 13ut Lavater betrayed m^. M aster Wiiite, a 
chowder-headed lout of a lad, as dull as a pig of lead, and as mulishly 
obstinate as Muley Abdallah, persisted that his answer was correct, 
and at last a pealed to the sU|)erior authority of a Tutor's Key, that 
he h.id kept b. stealth in his desk. From this instant my importance 
ileclined, .nd the urchins evidently began to question, with some jus- 
tice, what right I had to rule nine, who was not competent to the Rule 
of Three. By way of a diversion, I invited my pupils to a walk ; but 

I wish G had been mare circumstantial in his instructions before 

he left. Two of the boys pl-ad.d sick headaches to remain behind; 
and I led the resi, through ni. arithmetical failure, uiuLr very slender 




government, bv the most unfortunate route I could have chosen,— tn 
fact past the verv windows of their parents, who comphined after- 
wards that ihev walked more like bears than hoys, and that if Mr 



THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD, 417 

G •■ hfid drawa lots for one at a raffle, he could not have been more 
unfortunate in his new usher. 

To avoid observation, which I did not court, I led them aside into a 
meadow, nnd pulling out a volume of "Paradise Lost," left the boys 
to amuse themselves as they pleased. They pleased, accordingly, to 
get up a little boxin;j^-mati:h, a-la-Crib and Molineux — between Master 
\\ hite and tlie little Creole, of which I was informed only by a final 
shout and a stre.-m of blood that trickled, or treacled, from the fiat 
nuse of the child of colour. Luckily, as I thought, he was near home, 
whither I sent him for washing and consolation, and in return for 
which, in the course of a quarter of an hour, while still in the field, a 
bl.ick footman, in powder blue turned up with yellow, brought me the 
following note : — 

" Mrs. Col. Christopher informs Mr G ^'s Usher, that as the 

vulgar practice of pugilism is allowed at Sprin^4 Grove Academy, 
Master Adolphus Ferdinand Chribtopher will m future be educated at 
home ; particularly as she understands Master C. was punished in the 
morning, in a way that only becomes blacks and slaves. — To the new 
Usher at Mr G 's." 

Irritated at this event and its commentary, I resolved to punish 
Master White, but Master White was nowhere to be found, having' 
expell' d himself and run away home, where he complained to his 
pirenis of the new usher's deficiencies, and told the whole story of 
the sum in Practice, begging earnestly to be removed from a school 
where, as he said, it was impossible for him to improve himself. The 
prayer of the petition was heard, and on the morrow, Mr White's son 
was minus at Spring Grove Academy. Calling in the remainder, I 
ordered a m.irch homewards, where 1 arrived just in time to hear the 
sham headaches of the two invalids go off with an alarming explosion 
—fur they had thus concerted an opportunity for pLiying with gun- 
powder and prohibited arms. Here was another discharge from the 
school, fcr no parents think that their children look the better without 
eyebrows, and accordingly, when they went home for the night, the 
fathers and mothers resolved to send them to some other school, 
where no powder wns allowed, except upon the head of the master. 
I was too much hurt to resume schooling after the boys' bad behaviour, 
and so gave them a halt-holiday ; and never, oh never, did I so esti- 
mate the blessing of sleep, as on that night when I closed my eyelids 
on all my pupils ! But, alas ! sleep brought its sorrows : — I saw boys 
fighting, tlourishing slates, and brandishing squibs and crackers in my 
visions ; and through all, — such is the transparency of dreams, — I be- 
held the stern shadow of G looking unutterable reproaches. 

The next morning, with many painful recollections, brought one of 
pleasure ; I retnembered that it was the King's Birthday, and in a fit 
of very sincere loyalty, gave the whole school — alas ! reduced by one 
half — a whole holiday. Thus I got over the end of the week, and 
Sunday, literally a day of rest, was spent by the urchins at their own 
homes. It may seem sinful to wish for the death of a fellow-creature, 

but I could not help thinking of G 's relative along with what is 

2 D 



4i8 



THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD. 



called a happy release; and he really was so kind, as we learned by 

an express from G , as to break-up just after his arrival, and that 

G consequently would return in time to resume his scholastic 

duties on the Monday morning. With infinite pleasure I heard this 

good bad news from Mrs G , who never interfered in the classical 

part of the house, and was consequently all unconscious of the reduc- 
tion in the Spring Grove Estal)lishment. I forged an excuse for 
imn->ediately leavmg off school; "resigned, I kissed the rod" that I 
resigned, and as I departed no master but my own, was overwhelmed 




"Coming Event-; cast their SHmcIows before." 

by a torrent of grateful acknowledgments of the service [ had done 

the school, which, as Mrs G protested, could never have got on 

without me. How it got on I left G to discover, and I am told 

he behaved rather like Macduff at the loss of his "little ones"— but 
luckilv, I had given myself warning before his arrival, and escaped 
from one porch of the Academy at that nick of time when the Archo- 
(iidascukis wis entering by another, uerfectly convinced that, how- 
ever adapted to " live and learn," I should never be able to live and 
teach. 



4>9 

SKETCHES ON THE ROAD* 
THE OBSERVER. 

" T T"S very strnnge," said the coicliman, — looking at me over his 

I left shoulder — " I never see it afore — But I've made three obser- 
vaijons through life." 

Bat — so called for shortness, thoui^h in feet and inches he was rather 
an Upper Benjamin — was anything but what Othello denominates 
"a puny whipster." He had brandished the whip for full thirty 
years, at an avemge of as many miles a day ; the product of which, 
calculated according to Cocker, appears in a respectable sum total of 
six figures deep. 

Now an experience picked up in a progress of some three hundred 
thousand miles is not to be slighted : so I leaned with my best ear 
over the coachman's shoulder, in order to catch every syllable. 

" I have set on the box, man and boy," said Bat, looking straight 
ahead between his leaders, "a matter of full thirty year, and what's 
more, never missing a day — barring the Friday I was married ; and 
one of my remarks is — I never see a sailor in top-boots." 

" Now, I think of it, Bat," said I, a little disconcerted at my wind- 
fall from the tree of knowledj,'e, '" I have had some exiierience in 
travelling myself, and certainly do not recollect such a phenomenon." 

" I'll take my oath you haven't," said Bat, giving the near leader a 
little switch of self-satisfaction : " I once driv ttie Phenomenon myself. 
There's no such thing in nature. And I'll tell you another remarkable 
remark I've made through life — I never yet see a Jew pedlar with a 
Newfoundland dog." 

"As for that, I3at," said I, perhaps willing to retort upon him a 
little of my own disappointment, "though I cannot call such a sight 
to mind — I will not undertake to say I have never met with such an 
association." 

" If you have, you're a lucky man," said Bat, somewhat sharply, 
and with a smart cut on the wheeler ; " I belong to an association too, 
and we've none of us seen it. There's a hundred members, and I've 
inquired of every man of 'em, for it's my remark. But some people 
see a deal more than their fellows. Mayhap you've seen the other 
thing I've observed through life, and that's this — I've never observed a 
blacK man driving a long stage." 

"Never, Bat," said I, desiring to conciliate him, "never in the 
whole course of my stage practice ; and for many years of my life I 
v\as a daily visitant to Richmond." 

" And no one else has ever seen it," said Bat. "That's a correct 
remark, anyhow. As for Richmond, he never drove a team m his 
li'"e. for I asked him the question mvself, just after his tight with 
Shelton," 

• Comic Annual, 1S33. 



420 



SKETCHES ON THE ROAD. 



THE CONTRAST. 

" I hope the Leviathan is outward-bound," I ejaculated, half aloud, 
as I beheld the kit-kat portion of the Man-Mountain occupying; tlie 
wliole frame of the coach-window. But Hope deceived as usual ; and 
in lie came. 

I ou^lit rather to have said he essayed to come in, — i^x it was only 
Fitter repeated experiments upon material substances, that he contrived 
to enter the vehicle edgeways, — if such blunt bodies may be said to 




The Great Mail Contractor. 



have an edge at all. As I contemplnted his bulk, I could not help 
thinkin;^ of the mighty Lambert, and was ready to exclaim with 
Gratiano, '• .A Daniel ' a second Daniel !" 

Tlse Hrobdingnnggian had barely subsided in his seat, when the 
opposite doer opened, and in stepped a Lilliputian ! The conjunction 
was whimsical. Yonder, thou.>;ht 1, is the Irish Giant, and the other 
is the dwarf. Count Bonilawski. This coach is their travelling cara- 
van — and as for myself, I am no doubt the showman. 

I was amusing myself with this and kindred fant ies, when ri hand 
suddenly held un soinethin.^; at the coacli-window. '' It's my luggage," 
paid the Giant, witli a small penny-tnnnpet of a pipe, and takuig pes' 
bebjion of a mere golden pij^piu of a bundle. 



SKETCHES ON THE R<^AD. 



421 



" The three large trunks and the big;^est carpet-bag^ are my pro- 
perty," said the Dwarf, wuh ;i voice ;is unexpectedly stentorian. 

"Warm day, sir," squeaked the Giant by way of small talk. 

" Prodigious preponderance of caloric in the atmosphere," thundered 
the Dwarf, by way of big talk. 

"Have you paid your fare, gentlemen?" asked the coachman, 
]oo'<mg in at the door. 

" I have paid half of mine," said the Stupendous, "and its booked. 
My name is Lightfoot." 

" Mme is Heavyside," said the Pigmy, "ard I have disbursed the 
sum total." 

The door slammed— the whij) cracked — sixteen horseshoes made a 
clatter, and away bowled the " New Safety ;" but had b.irely rolled two 
hundred y.irds, when it gave an alarming bound over some loose 
paving stones, followed ijy a very critical swing. The Dwarf, in a 
tone Kiuder than ever, gave vent to a prodigious oath ; the Giant said, 
" Dear me ! " 

Th re will something come of this, said I to myself; so fei;^ning 
sleep, I leaned back m a corner, with a \vaiyear to their conversation. 
The Gog had been tliat morning \.o the Exhibition of Fleas in Regent 
Street, and thought them "prodigious!" The Runtling had visited 
the Great Whale at Charing-Cross, and "thought little of it." I he 
Goliah spoke with wonder of the "v.ist extent of view from the top of 
the Monument." The David was "disappointed by the prospect from 
Plinlimmon " 'I he Hurlothrumbo was "amazed by the grandeur of 
St Paul's." The Tom Thumb spoke sliiihtingly of St Peters at 
Rome. In tlieatricals their taste held the same mathematical tiropor- 
tion. Gog " must say he liked the Minors best." The " Wee ThinL; " 
declared for the Majors. The Man-I\Iountain's favourite was Miss 
/''(Wt' = twelve inches. The Manikin preferred Miss C7/(J///= eighteen. 




The Great Desert— Halt of the Caravan. 



The conversation and the contrast flourished in full flower through 
several sta-es, till we stopped to dine at the Salisbury Arms, and 
then — 



439 JOHN DAY. 

The Folio took a chair at the ordinary — 

The Duodecimo required "a room to himselC*' 

The Puiipet bespoke a leg of mutton — 

The Colossus ordered a mutton-chop. 

The Imp ran;j, the bell for "the loaf" — 

The Monster called lor a roll. 

A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum— 

A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum. 

We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, "The Sea ; the Sea ! ihe 
open Sea ! " 

The Mammoth hummed " The Streamlet." 

The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna — 

The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva. 

A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through 
the holes that time has made in her sieve : but I remember distinctly, 
as we passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while 

The Pigmy bussed the landlady — a buxom widow, fat, fair, and 
forty — 

The Giant kissed her daughter — a child ten years old, and remark- 
ably smijl for her age. 



JOHN DA Y. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD.* 
*• A Day after the Fair."— Old Proverh. 

John Day he was the biggest man 

Of all the coachman kind, 
With back too broad to be conceived 

By any narrow mind. 

The very horses knew his weight 

When he was in the rear. 
And wish'd his box a Christmas-box 

To come but once a year. 

Alas ! against the shafts of love ' 

What armour can avail .'' 
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through 

His scarlet coat of maiL 

The barmaid of the Crown he lovej, 
From whom he never ranged ; 

For though he changed his horses there, 
His love he never changed. 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



JOHN D At. ^ 



He thouo^ht her fairest of all fares, 

So fnndly love prefers ; 
And often, among twelve outsides, 
Deem'd no outside like hers. 

One day ns she was sitting down 

Beside the porter-pump, 
Ke came, and knelt with all his fat, 

And made an offer plump. 

Said she, " My taste will never learn 

To like so huge a man, 
So I must beg you will come here 

As little as you can." 

But still he stoutly urged his suit, 
With vows, and sighs, and tears, 

Vet could not pierce her heart, aUh.iugV 
He drove the " Dart " for years. 

In vain he woo'd, in vain he sued ; 

The maid was cold and proud, 
And sent him off to Coventry, 

While on his way to Stroud. 

He frf'tted all the way to Stroud, 
And thence all back to town ; 

The course of love was never smooth. 
So his went up and down. 

At last her coldness made him pine 

To merely bones and skin, 
But still he loved like one resolved 

To love through thick and tbia. 

* O Mary ! view my wasted back, 

And see my dwindled calf; 
Though I have never had a wife, 

I've lost my better half." 

Alas ! in vain he still assail'd, 
Her heart withstood the diut j 

Though he had carried sixteen ston«^ 
He could not move a flint. 

Worn out. at l.,st he made a vow 
To break his being's link ; 



124 



JOHN DA Y. 

For he was so reduced in size 
At nothing he could shrink. 

Now some will talk in water's praise, 

And waste a deal of breath, 
l!ut John, though he drank nothing else^ 

He drank himselt" to death. 

The cruel maid that caused his love 

Found out the fatal close, 
For looking in the butt, she saw 

The butt-end of his woes. 



Some say his spirit haunts the CrowOj 

But that is only talk — 
For after riding all his hie, 

His ghost objects to walk. 

P 




The Bux Seat. 



425 




The Sublime and the Ridiculous. 



THE PA RISH RE VOL UTION* 

" From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step." 

Alarming news from the country —Awfulinsurrection at Stoke I ogh 
—The Military called out— Flight of the Mayor 

WE are concerned to state, that accounts were received in town at 
a late hour last night, of an alarming state of things at Stoke 
Poijis. Nothing private is yet made pubUc ; but reports speak of 
very serious occurrences. The number ot killed v. not known. aS nc 
despatches have been received. 

Further Particulars. 
Nothing is known yet , papers have been received down to the 4tl 
of November, but they are not up to anythmg. 

Further further Particulars. {Private Letter.) 

It is scarcely possible for y^ou, my dear Charles, to conceive the 
difficulties and anarchical maniiesiations of turbulence, which threaten 
* Comic Annual, iS3r. 



43$ THE PARISH REVOLUTION. 

and disturb your old birthpla'-e, poor Stoke Pogis. To the reflecting 
mind, the circumstances v/aich hourly transpire afford ample food for 
speculation and moral reasoning. To seethe constituted authorities 
of a place, however mistaken or mis'^uided by erring benevolence, 
plunging into a fearful struggle with an irritated, infuriated, and I may 
say, armed populace, is a sight which opens a field for terriiied con- 
jecture. I look around me with doubt, agitation, and dismay ; because, 
whilst I venerate those to whom the sway of a part of a state may be 
said to be intrusted, I cannot but yield to the conviction that the 
abuse of power must be felt to be an overst?p of authority in the best 
intentioned of the Mas^istracy. This even you will allow. Being on 
the spot, my dear Charles, an eye-witness of these fearful scenes, 1 
feel how impossible it is for me to give you any idea of the prospects 
which surround me. To say that I think all will end well, is to ties- 
pass beyond the confines of hope ; but whilst I adiuit that there is 
strong ground for apprehending the worst, I cannot shut my eyes to 
the conviction, that if firm measures, tempered with concession, be 
resorted to, it is far from being out of the pale of probability that 
serenity may be re-established. In hazarding this conclusion, how- 
ever, you must not consider me as at all forgetting the responsiSihties 
which attach to a decidedly formed opinion. O Charles ! you who 
are in the quiet of London, can little dream of the conflicting elemcMits 
which form th-' storm of this devoted village, I fear you will be 
wearied with all these details ; but I thought at this distance, at 
which you are from me, you would wish me to run the risk of wearying 
you rather than omit any of the interesting circumstances. Let Ed- 
ward read this ; his heart, which I know beats for the Parish, will 
bleed for us. I am, &c H. J. P. 

P.S. — Nothing further has yet occurred, but you shall hear from me 
again to-morrow. 

Another Account, 

Symptoms of disunion have for some time past prevailed between 
the authorities of Stoke Pogis, and a part of the inhabitants. The 
primum mobile or first mobbing, originated in an order of the Mayor's, 
that all tavern doors siiould shut at eleven. Many complied, and 
shut, but the door of the Rampant Lion openly resisted the order. 
A more recent notice has produced a new and more dangerous irri- 
tation on our too coml^usiible population. A proclamation against 
Guy Fauxes and Fireworks was understood to be in preparation, 
by command of the chief Magistrate. If his Worship had listened to 
the earnest and prudential advice of the rest of the bench, the obnoxi- 
ous placard would not have been issued till the 6th, but he had it 
posted up on the 4th, and by his precipitation has plunijed Stoke 
Pogis into a convuLion, that nothing but Time's soothing syrup can 
alleviate. 

Fro7n another quarter. 

We are all here in the greatest alarm ! a general rising of the in 
habitants took place this morning, and they have continued in a di* 



THE PARISH REVOLUTION. 4*» 

ttirbed state ever sin'^e. Evrrybody is in a bustle and indicating 
some popuinr movement. Seditious cries are heard ! the bell-man is 
going his rounds, and on repeating " God save the King !" is saluted 
with " Hang the crier !" Organized bands of boys are going abnut 
collecting slicks, &c.. whether for barricades or bonfires is not known ; 
many of them singingthe famous Gunpowder H\mn,"Pray remember," 
&c. These are features that remind us of the most inflammable times 
Several strangers of suspicious gentility arrived here last night, and 
privately engaged a barn ; they are now busily distributing handbills 
amongst the crowd : surely some horrible tragedy is in preparation ! 

A Later Account. 

The alarm increases. Several families have taken flight by the 
waggon, and the office of Mr Stewart, the overseer, is besieged by 
persons desirous of being passed to their own parisli. He seems 
embarrassed and irresolute, and returns evasive answers. The worst 
fears are entertaining. 

Fresh Intellij^ence. 

The cause of the overseer's hesitation has transpired. The pass-cnrt 
and horse have been lent to a tradesman, for a day's pleasure, and are 
not returned. Nothing can exceed the indignation of the jiaupiis! 
they are all pouring towards the poorhouse, headed bv Timoiliy 
Gubbins, a desperate drunken character, but the idol of the Workhouse. 
The constables are retiring before this formidable body. The follow- 
ing notice is said to be posted up at the Town-hall: "Stick No 
Bills." 

Eleven d clock. 

The mob have proceeded to outrage — the poor poorhouse has not a 
whole pane of glass in its whole fr.ime 1 The magistrates, with Mr 
Higginbottom at their head, have agreed to call out the militiry ; 
and he has sent word that he will come as soon as he has put on his 
uniform. 

A terrific column of little bovs has just run down the High Street, 
it is said to see a fight it the Green Dragon. There is an imnT-nse 
crowd in the Market-place. Some of the leading shopkeepers have 
had a conference witli the Mayor, and the people are now being in- 
formed by a placard of the result. Gracious heaven ! how opposite is 
it to the hopes of all moderate men — "The M.ire is Hobstinate — He 
is at the Roes and Cro^\n — But refuses to treat." 

Twelve d clock. 

The military has arrived, and is placed under his own command. 
He has marched himself in a bodv to the market-place, and is now 
drav, n up one deep in front of the Pound. The mob are in possession 
of the walls, and have chalked upon them the following proclamation: 
" Stokian Pogians be firm ! stick up for bonfires ! stand to your 
squibs !" 

Qttarter-past Twelve. 

Mr Wigsby, the Master of the Free School, has declared in the 
side of Libertv, and has obtained an audience of the Ma\or. He is 
to return in fifteen minutes for his Worship's dccisiun. 



428 



THE PARTSII REVOLUTION. 



Half-' a '•J Twelve. 
During the interval, the M.iyor has sworn in two special constables, 
nnd will concede nothinc(. When the excitement of tlic mob was 
represented to him by Mr Wigsby, he pointed to a truncheon on a 
table, and answered. "'They may dn their worsest." The exa^nera- 
tion is awful — the most frightful cries are uttered, " Huzza for Guys ! 
Gubbins for ever! and no H ig<;(iii bottom ! " The military has been 
ordered to clear the streets, but his lock is not flinty enough, and his 
gun refuses to fire on the people. 



The constables have just obtained a slifrht advantage, they made a 
charge altogether, and almost upset a Guy. On the left-hand side 
of the "ay they have been less successful; Mr Huggins, the beadle, 
attempted to take possession of an imporircut street post, but was 
repulsed l)y a boy with a cracker. At the same moment Mr Blogg, 
the churchwarden, was defeated in a desperate attempt to force a 
passage up a co2irt. 

One d clock. 

The military always dines at one, and has retreated to the Pig and 
Puncheon. There is a report that the head constable is taken with 
all his staff. 

Two d clock. 

A flying watchman has just informed us that the police are victo- 
rious on all points, and the same has been confirmed by a retreating 




Good Entertainment for Man and Horse. 

constable. He states that the Pound is full — Gubbins in the stocks^ 



TffE PA RTSff RE VOL UTIOfT. 4«9 

ard Dobbs in the cage. That the whole mob would have been routed 
but lor a very corpulent man, who rallied them on running away. 

Half-past three. 

The check sustained by the mob proves to have been a reverse, 
the constables are the sufferers. The cage is chopped to faggots, we 
haven't a pound, and the stocks are rapidly falling. Mr Wigsby has 
gone again to the Max or with overtures, the people demand the 
release of Dobbs and Gubbins, and the dcm ilition of the stocks, the 
pound, and the ca^e. As these are already ilestroyed, and Gubbins 
and Dobbs are at large, it is confidentlv hoped by all moderate men, 
that his Worship will accede to the terms. 

Four d clock. 

The Mayor has rejected the terms. It is confidently affirmed that 
after this decision, he secretly ordered a post-chaise, and has set off 
witii a pair of post-horses as fast as they can't gallop. A meeting of 
the principal tradesmen his taken place, and the butcher, the baker, 
the grocer, the cheesemonger, and the piJjlican, have agreed to 
compose a Provisional Government. In the meantime the mob 
are loud in their joy, — they are letting off squibs and crackers, 
and rockets, and devils, in all directions, and quiet is completely 
restored. 

We subjoin two documents, — one containing the articles drawn up 
bv the Provisional Government and Mr Wigsby ; the other, the 
genuine narrative of a spectator. 

Dear Charles, — The events of the last few hours, since I closed 
my minute narrition, are pregnant with fate ; and no words that I 
can utter on pap' r will L;ive you an idea of their interest. Up to the 
hour at which I closed my sheet, anxiety regulated the movement of 
every watchful bosom ; but since then, the approaches to tranquillity 
have met with barriers and interruptions. To the meditative niina, 
these popular paroxysms have their desolating deductions. Oh, my 
Charles, I myself am almost sunk into an Agitator — so much do we 
take the colour from the dye in which our reasoning faculties :.re 
steeped. I stop the press — yes, Charles, I stop the press of r-^cum- 
Stances to sav, th it a dawn of the Pacific is gleaming over the Atlantic 
of our disturbances ; and I am enabled, by the kindness of Constable 
Adams, to send you a Copy of the Preliminaries, which are pretty 
well agreed upon, and only wait to be ratified. I close my letter in 
haste. That peace may descend on the Olive Tree of Stoke Pogis, is 
the earnest prayer of, &c. li. J. P. 

P.S. — Show the Articles to Edward. He will, with his benevolence, 
at once see that they are indeed precious articles for Stoke Pogis. 

CONDITIONS. 

I. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed their 
thirds, and Novembers their fifths. 

7. That the property of Gu\s shall be held inviolable, and thris 
persons respected. 



4:o 



THE PARISH REVOLUTION. 



3. Thnt no arson be allowed, but all bonfires shall be burnt by the 
common hangman. 

4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the place. 

5,, That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame 
Hengler. in a cartridge-box. 

6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for. 

7. That the p.a^ish beadle, for the time being, be authorised to stand 
no nonsunse. 

8. That his Majesty's mail be permitted to i ass on the night in 
question. 

9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the, Parish expense. 
10. That the nshes of old bonfires be never r;il<ed up, 

.... r, j V\ ACSiAFF, High Constable. 

(6/^-//^.0 WlG.BY. 




An Ami Climax. 



T/ie Narronx'tiv of a High Whittiess who seed every Thin/; proceed out 
of a Back-winder up Fore Pears to liJrs Phanphris. 

O Mrs Humphris! Littel did I Dram, at my Tmi of Life, to see 
Wat is before me. The hole Parrish is Throne into a pannikin ' 
The Revelations has reeched Stock Poggis — and the people is riz agin 
the Kings rain, and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning 
Mrs GriL;gs and Me as bean siting aljscondingly at the tiptop of the 
Hows crying lor lowness. We have lackd our too selves in the bade 
Attical Rome, and nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some 
say it 's hke the Frentch Plot — sum sa\ sum thing moor arter the 



THE PARTSn REVGLUTICN. 



43» 



Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be flored like Brus- 
sels. Well, I never did lilce their. Brown holland brum gals. 

Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mistet 
H logins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus ! — All riotism and 
hubbub. — There is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the 
Mows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long 
'.» inders. — Poor Man ! — for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in 
his siu'ws 1 • 

I hobserve Mr Tuder's bauld hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, 
and so is Mister Waggstaff the Constable, considdering his rummatiz 
has only left one Harm disaffected to show his loyalness with. He 
and his men air staving the mobbs Heds to make them Suppurate. 
They are trying to Custardise the Ringleders But as yet hav Capti- 
vated Noboddy. There is no end to accidence. Three unsensible 
bodiiis are Carrion over the way on Three Cheers, but weather Nay- 
bers or Gyes. is dubbious. Master GoUop too, is jest gon By on one 
of his Ants Shuters, with a Bunch of exploded Squibs gone off in his 
Trowsirs. It mukes Mrs G. and Me tremble like Axle trees, for our 
Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open Winder they sliped out. 
With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps they may git 




Breaking the News. 

into. Mister J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate aein the mobb j- 
and I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartnch Box. Mrs 
Gn-u- IS in the Sam state of Singul-intv ns meself Onely thini<. Mrs 
H. ot iwo Loan Wiming looken Down on such a Heifervescence! and 
a'5 l-h'norant as the unbiggotted Babe of the stite of our Husbandry \ 
!o had tu our Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean No moor as the 



43? 



THE PARISH REVOLUTION, 



Backer and We shold here Nothing- if Mister Higgins hadn't hollowed 
np Fore Storys. What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as 
iclTiised to Reed the Riot Ax, and the Town Clark is no Schollard ! 
I-^n't that a bad Herring ! 

O Mrs Hum[)hris ! It is unpossible to throa ones hies from one 
End of Stock Poggis to the other, without grate Pane. Nothing is 
seed but Wivs asking for Huzbmds — nothing is heard but childerin 
looking for Farthers. Mr Hatband the Untlertackcr as jist bean 
stjuibed and nl:)lignted for safeness to inter his own Hows. Mr Hig- 
gms blames the unflexablo Stubbleness of the Mare and says a httel 
timely Concusion wood have been of Preventive Scrvis. Haven nose ! 
For my Part I don't believe all tiie Concussion on Hearth wood hav 
prevented the RcLiolater bcin scarified by a Squib and runnm agin 
the Rockit — or that it could unshaiter Pore Master Gollop, or squentch 
Wider Welshis rix of Haze witch is now Flamming and smocking in 
two volumes. The ingins as been, but could not Play for want of 
Pips witch is too often the Case with P.irrish inginuity. Wile affares 
are in this friteful Posturs, thank Haven I have one grate comfit. Mr 
J IS cum back on his legs iVcm Twelve to one tired in the extreams 
with Bemg a Standing Army, and his Unitormity spatterdashed all 
over He says his hone savmg was onely thro leavmg His retrench- 
ments. 




The Eagle Assurance. 

Pore Mr Griggs has cum in after his Wif in a state of grate ex- 
aggeration. He says the Boys hav maid a Bone Fire of his garden 
Itiice and Pi.les upon Pales cant put it out. Severil Shells of a bom- 



THE PARISH REVOLUTION. 



433 



b.istic niter as been picked up in his Back Yard and the old Cro's nest 
as been Perpetrated rite thro by a Rockit. We hav sent out the Def 
Siiopmun to here vvat he can and he says their is so Manny Crackers 
goinL,' he dont no witcli report to BeUve, but the Fishmongerers has 
Cotchd and with all his Stock compleatiy Guttid. The Brazers next 
Dore is lickwise in Hashes, — but it is hopped he has assurance enuf 
to cover him All over. — They say nothing can save the Dwellins ad- 
journing. O Mrs H; how greatful ought J. and I to bee that our hone 
Premiss and propperty is next to nothing ! The effex of the lit on 
Bildmgs is marvulous. The Turrit of St Magnum Bonum is quit 
clear and you can tell wat Time it is by the Clock verry phinely only 
It stands ! 

The noise is enuf to Drive won deleterious ! Too Specious Con- 
estabbles is persewing littel Tidmash down the Hi Street and Sho grate 
fLrmness, but I trembel for the Pelisse. Peple drop in with New 
News every Momentum. Sum say All is Lost — ^and the town Criar 
is missin. Mrs Griggs is quit retched at herein five littel Boys is 
thrown off a spirituous Cob among the Catherend Weals. But I 
hooe it wants cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed has had his hies 
Blasted by sum blowd Gun Powder. You Mrs H. are Patrimonial, 
and may supose how these flying rummers Upsettsa Mothers Sperrits. 

O Mrs Humphris how I envy you that is not tossing on the ragging 
bellows of these Flatulent Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic 




' yiAiA-vff 



Tumultum in Pjrvo. 



Govinment in such Sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padington. 
May you never yo thro such lYansubstaniiation as I liave bem ruing 
in ! Things that stood for Sentries as bean removed in a Mmuet — 
and the verry effigis of wat was venerablest is now Burning in Bone 
Fires. The Worshipfull chaer is emty. The Mare as gon off cian- 
destiny with a pare of Hossis. and without his diner. They say he 
complanes that his Coneration did not stik to him as it shold have 
dun But went over to the other Side. Pore Sob — in sich a case I 

2 E 



434 THE FURLOUGH. 

dont. wunder he lost his Stommich. Yisterdy he was at the summut 
of Pour. Them that hours ago ware enjoying parrisli officiousness as 
been turned out of there Dignittis ! Mr Barber says in futer ail the 
Perukial Authoritis will be \\'igs. 

Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Minestir think & 
Stock Pogi;is's constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer 
Mrs Humphris most frendly and truUy Bridget Jones. 



THE FURLOUGH, 

AN IRISH ANECDOTE.* 
"Time was called." — Boxiaiuu 

IN the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister 
kingdom ; and as 1 did not travel, like Polypht mus, with my eye 
out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was 
the tollowing incident. 

I was standing one morning at the window of "mine inn," when my 
attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The 
Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat 
a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of the 
Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, 
seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sifter or 
sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier 
to descend from his seat on the coacli. 

" Come down wid ye, Thady," — the speaker was the old woman, — 
" come down now to your ould mother. Sure it's flog ye they will, 
and strip the flesh off the bones I giv ye. Come down, Thady, darlin ! " 

"It's honour, mother," was the- short reply of the soldier ; and with 
clenched hands and set teeth he took a stiffer posture on the coach. 

" Thady, come down — come down, ye fool of the world — come along 
down wid ye !" The tone of the present appeal was more impatient 
and peremptory than the last ; and the answer was more promptly 
and sternly pronounced : " It's honour, brother !" and the body of the 
speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof. 

" O Thady, come down ! sure it's me, your own Kathleen, that bids 
ye. Come down, or ye'll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel ; come 
down then !" The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast 
a look upward, that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier's 
countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed 
the same resolution as before. 

"It's honour, honour bright, Kathleen !" and, as if to defend him- 
self from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while 
the renewed entreaties burst from all three in chorus, with the same 
answer. 

" Come down, Thady, honey ! — Thady, ye fool, come down ! — 
Thady, come down to me !" 

• Coinic Annual, 1830. 



THE furlough: 435 

" It's honour, mother ! — It's honour, brother : — Honour bright, my 
own Kathleen !" 

Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, 
that I did not hesitate to go down and inquire into the particulars of 
the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on furlou^^h, to visit 
his family, — and having exceeded as he thought the term of his leave, 
he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his 
neglect. I asked him when the furlough expired. 

"The first of March, your honour — bid luck to it of all the black 
days in the world — and here it is, come sudden on me like a shot !" 

"The first of March ! — why, my good fellow, you have a day to 
spare then, — the first of March will not be here tilMLto-morrow. It is 
Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days." 

The soldier was thunderstruck. — "Twenty-nine days is it ? — You're 
sartin of that same! — O Mother, Mother!— the Divil fly away wid 
yere ould Almanack — a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, 
afther living so long in the family of us !" 

His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, ancj 
throw up his cap, with a loud Hurrah ! — His second, was to throw 
himself into the arms of his Kathleen, and the third, was to wring my 
hand off in acknowledgment. 

" It's a happy man I am, your Honour, for my word's saved, and 
all by your Honour's manes. — Long life to your Honour for the samel 
i— May ye live a long hundred — and lape-years every one of them 1 " 




436 




Single Blessedness. 



NUMBER ONE* 

TERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADTb 

It's very hard ! — and so it is, 

To live in such a row, — 

And witness this, that every Miss 

But me, has got a Beau. 

For Love goes calling up and down, 

But here he seems to shun ; 

I'm sure he has been ask'd enough 

To call at Number One ! 

I'm sick of all the double knocks 

Th;it come to Number Four ! 

At Number Three, I often see 

A lover at the door ;— 

And one in blue, at Number Two, 

C.iUs daily like a dun. 

It's very hard they come so near 

And not to Number One ! 

• Comic Annual, 1830. 



NUMBER ONE, 49 

Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear 

Exactly to her mind, — 

By sitting at the w indow-pane 

Without a bit of blind ; — 

But I go in the balcony, 

Which she has never done, 

Vet arts that thrive at Number Five 

Don't take at Number One I 

'Tis hard with plenty in the street, 

And plenty passing by, — 

There's nice young men at Number Te% 

But only rather shy ; — 

And Mrs Smith across the way 

Has got a grown-up son. 

But la ! he hardly seems to know 

There is a Number One ! 

There's Mr Wick at Number Nine, 

But he's intent on pelf, 

And tljoii^h he's pious, will not love 

His nei|,'hbour as himself. 

At Number Seven there was a sale^ 

The goods had quite a run ! 

And here I've got my single lot 

On hand at Number One ! 

My mother often sits at work 

And talks of props and stays, 

And what a comfort I shall be 

In her declining dnys : 

The very maids about the house 

Have set me down a nun — 

The sweethearts all belong to then 

That call at Number One ! 

Once only, when the flue took fire, 
One Friday afternoon, 
Young Mr Long came kindly in 
And told me not to swoon : — 
Why can't he come again without 
The Phoenix and the Sun ! — 
We cannot always have a flue 
On fire at Number One ! 

I am not old ! I am not plain I 

Nor awkward in my gait ; 

I am not crooked, like the bride 

That went from Number Eight :— 

I'm sure white satin made her look 

As fcrown as any bun — 

But even beauty has no chance, 

I think, at Number One ! 



438 



THE DROWNING DUCKS. 

At Number Six they say Miss Rose 

Has slain a score of hearts, 

And Cupid, for her sal<e, has been 

Quite prodigal of darts. 

*! he Imp they show with bended bow, 

I wish he had a gun ! — 

But if he had, he'd never deign 

To shoot with Number One. 

It's very hard, and so it is, 

To live in such a row ! 

And here's a ballad-singer come 

To aggravate my woe ; — 

Oh, take away your foolish song 

And tones enough to stun — 

There is " Nae luck about the house,* 

I know, at Number One! 




A Double Knock. 



THE DROWNING DUCKS.* 

Amongst the sights that Mrs Bond 

Enjoy'd yet grieved at more than others, 

Were little durklm;;s in a pond, 
Swimming about beside their mothers — 

Sm.iU things like living waterlilies, ' 

But yellow as the daffoV/Z/zVi-. 

" It's very hard," she used to moan, 

" That other people hive their ducklings 

To grace their waters — mine alone 
Have never any pretty chucklings." 

For why ! — each little yellow navy 

Went down — all downy — to old Davy ! 
* Comic Annual, iS;o. 



7 HE DROWNING DUCKS. 43^ 

She had a lake — a pon,d I mean — 

Its wave was rather thick than pearly ; 

She had two ducks, their napes were green- 
She had a drake, his tail was curly ;-^ 

Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond, 

No liule ducks had Mrs Bond ! 

The birds were both the best of mothers — 
The nests had eggs — the eggs had luck— 

The infant D.'s came forth like others — 
But there, alas ! the matter stuck ! 

They might as well have all died addlM 

As die when they began to paddle ! 

For when, as native instinct taught her, 

The mother set her brood afloat, 
They sank ere long right under water, 

Like any overloaded boat ; 
They were web-footed too to see, 
As ducks and spiders ought to be ! 

No peccant humour in a gander 

Brought havoc on her little folks,— 
No poaching cook- — a frying pander 

To appetite, — destroy'd their yolks ;— 
Beneath her very eyes, Od' rot 'em ! 
They went, like plummets, to 'the bottom. 

The thing was strange — a contradiction 

It seem'd of Nature and her works ! 
For little ducks, beyond conviction. 

Should float without the help of corks; 
Great Johnson it bewilder'd him 
To hear of ducks that could not swim. 

Poor Mrs Bond ! what could she do 

But chani;e the breed — and she tried divers, 

Which dived as all seem'd born to do ; 
No little ones were e'er survivors — 

Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking, 

They were all given to die-sinking ! 

In vain their downy coats were shorn ; 

They flourrder'd still .'—Batch after batch went ' 
The little fools seem'd only born 

And hatch'd for nothing but a hatchment ! 
^Vhene'er they launch'd— O sight of wonder ! 
Like fires the water "got them under ! " 

No woman ever gave their lucks 

A better chance than Mrs Bond did ; 



440 THE DROWNING DUCKS. 

At last, quite out of heart and ducks, 

She gave her pond up, and desponded ; 
For Death among the waterlilies 
Cried " Due ad me " to all her dillies ! 

But though resolved to breed no more. 
She brooded often on this riddle — 

Alas ! 'twas darker than before ! 
At last, about the summer's middle, 

What Johnson, Mrs Bond, or none did. 

To clear the matter up the Sun did ! 

The thirsty Sirius, doglike, drank 
So deep, his furious tongue to cool, 

The shallow waters sank and sank, 
And lo ! from out the wasted pool, 

Too hot to hold them any lont;er. 

There crawl'd some eels as big as conger 1 

I wish all folks would look a bit 
In such a case below tlie surface ; 

But when the eels were caught and split 
By Mrs Bond, just think of her face. 

In each inside at once to spy 

A duckling turn'd to giblet pie ! 

The sight at once explain'd the case, 
Making th£ Dame look rather silly; 

The tenants of that Eely Place 

Had found the way to Pick a dilly. 

And so, by under-water suction, 

Had wrought the little ducks' abduction. 




A Poacher. 



441 




Too Cold to Bear. 



AN ASSENT TO THE SUMMUT OF MOUNT 
BLANK* 

IT was on the ist of Augst, — I remember by my wngs cumming 
dew, and I wanted to be riz, — that Me and master maid our mmds 
up to the Mounting. I find Master as oppend an acount with the 
Keep Sack — but as that is a cut abov, and rit in by only Lords and 
Laddies, I am redeuced to a Peer in the pagis of the Comick Anual 
— Mr H. giving leaves. 

Wile we waited at Sham Money, our minds sevral tims misgiv, but 
considdring only twelve Gentelmen and never a footniun had bin up, 
we determind to make ourselves particler, and so highbred gides to 
sho us up. For a long tim the whether was dout full weather— first 
it snew — then thew— and then friz— and that was most agreeabil for 
a tempting. The first thing I did was to change my blew and wite 
li\ ry. as I guest we shood h,w enuf of blew and wite on the mounting 
— I)ut put on a dred nort for fear of every thing — takin care to hav my 
pockets well cr.imd with sand witches, and, as proved arterwards, tliey 
broke my falls very much when I slipd on my bred and ams. The 
* Comic Annual, 1832. 



♦42 AN ASSENT TO THE SUMMUT 

land Lord was so kind as lend me His green gaws tap room blind 
for my eyes, and I rcciimend no boddy to go up anv Snowhill without 
green vales — for the hice dazls like winkin. Sum of the L;ides wnnted 
me to ware a sort of critnpt sk^iits, — but thoght m.y feet would be the 
stifer for a cramp on — and declind binding any think xcept my list 
garters rounn my Shews. I did all this by advize of Jolm Mary 
Cuthny the Cliief Gide, who had bin 8 tims up to every think. Thus 
a. tired we sit out. on our feat, like Capting Paris, with our Nor poles 
in our ii.Tnds, — Master in verry gO(^d sperrits, nnd has for me I w.is 
quit ellivattcd lo think what a figger the Summut of Mount Blank 
wood cut down the airys of P(^rtland Plaice. 

Arter slipinp and slidding for ours, we cum to the first principle 
Glazier. To give a correct noshun, let any won suppose a man in 
fnstions with a fiaim and gl.iss and puttey and a dimond pensel, and 
it's quit the revers of that. It's the snin with the Mare of Glass. If 
you dont think of a mare or any think maid of class you have it 
xactly. We was three ours gitting over the Glazier, and then come 
to the Grand Mulli'ts, ware our beds was bes[)oak — that is, nothing 
but clean shcats of sno, — and never a warmin pan. To protect our 
beds we struck our poles agin the rock, with a. cloath over them, but 
it looked like a verry litle tent to so much mounting. There we was, 
• — all Sno vviih us Sollitory tii^gers atop. Nothink can give the sub- 
lime idear of it but a twelf Cake. 

The Gides pinted out from hear the Pick de. Middy, but I was too 
cold to understand Frentch — ;ind we see a real Shammy leeping, as 
Master sed, from scrag to scrag, and from pint to pint, for viitles 
and drink— but to me it looked like junipin a bout to warm him self. 
His springs in the middel of Winter 1 realy beleave as uncrediljle. 
Nothuik else was muving xcept Havclaunchcs, witcli is stupendus 
Sno balls in high situ.itions, as leaves then' plaices without warnin, 
and makes a deal of niischef in howses and tamlies. We shot of our 
pistle, but has it maid little or no noise, didnt ear tbe remarkbly fine 
ekko. 

We dind at the Grand Mullets on cold foul and a shivver c<" am, 
with a little O de Colon, a;^en stomical panes. Wat was moor cum- 
fortble we found haf a bottel of brandey, left behind by sum one before, 
and by way of return we left behind a littel crewit of Chilly Viniger 
for the next cummer, wlioever he mite be or not. Alter this repass'd 
we went to our subblime rests, I may say, in the Wurld's garnts, up 
150 paie of stares. As faling out of Bed was dangerus, we riz a vval 
of stons on each side. Knowin^^ how comfortble Master sleeps at 
Home, I regretted his unaccommodation, and partickly as he was verry 
restless, and evry tim he stird kickd me about the Hed. I laid nwack 
a ;-;ood wile thiiikin'4 how litiel Farther, down in Summerset Sheer, 
thoLjht 1 was up in Moiint Blank Sheer; but at long and last I went 
of like a top, and dremt of Summuts. Won may sleep on wus pillers 
than Nap Sacks. 

Next mornin we riz erly, having still a good deal to git up, and 
skramblcd on agin, by crivises and crax as maid our flesh crawl on 
h.inds and nees to look at. Master wanted to desend in a crack, 
but as he nu;f not 'jit up in a crack agin, his letting himself down was 



OF MOUMT'SLANK. 



443 



unrecomended. Arter menny ours works, we cum to the Grand 
Pl.ito. Master called it a vast Amphi-Theater ; and so it is, except 
Du-Crow and the Horses and evry thing. Hear we brekfisted, but 
was surprizd as our stoinicks not having moor hedges, Master only 
eting a Chickin vying, and me only etijig all the rest. We h;id httel 
need to not eat,— ^the most uneasy p.irt to go was to cum. In about 
too ours we cum to" a Sno v^all, up rite as \\v^\\ as St Paul's ; that 
maid us come to an alt, and I cood not help saying out, Wat is only 
tuo human legs to 200 feet ! Howsumever, altrr a bottel of Wine 
we was abel to proceed m a zig zag direxion,— the Gides axing the 
way, and cutting steps afore. After a deal of moor white Slavery, we 
sucsided in gitting up to the Mounting's top, and no body can hav a 
distant idea of it, but them as is there. Such Sno \ And ice enuf 
to serve all the Fish Mun^^ers, and the grate Routs till the end of the 
Wurld ! 

I regrets my joy at cumming to the top maid me forget all I ment 
to do at it ; and in partickler to thro a tumble over hed and heals, 
as was my mane object in going up. Howsumever, I shall allways 
be abel to say Me and Master as bin to the Summut of Mount 
Blank, and so has a little butterfly. I ought to mension the curious- 
ne~s of seeing one there, but we did not ketch it, as it was too far 
abov us. 

Wl dissented down in much shorter time, and without anny axident 
xcept M isters sliding telliscope, witch roled of the ice. Wen we cum 
agin to Sham Money, the Land Lord a~kd our names to be rit in the 
book, as v\ as dun, by Mr W. in prose, but by me in poetry — 



*' Mount Blank is very hard to be cum at, 
But me and Master as bin to its Suiiiiaut." 



John Jones. 




Figu ing in the Album of Mont Blanc. 



444 




No Bankrupt though I Breaks. 



A HORSE DEALER* 



IS a double dealer, for he dealeth more in double meanings than 
your fiunster. When he giveth his word it signifif ih little, how- 
bcit it standeth for two significations. He putteth his promises like 
bis colts, in a break. Over his mouth Truth, like the turnpil<e-man, 
writeth up No Trust. Whenever he speaketh, his spoke hath m^ie 
turns than the fore-wheel. He ttlkth lies, not white only, or black, 
but likewise grey, bay, chestnut, brown, cream, and roan, piebald and 
skewb.ild. He sweareth as many oaths out of court as any man. and 
more in ; for he will swear two ways about a horse's dam. If, by 
God's gr.nce, he be something honest, it is only a dapple, for he can be 
f.iir and unfair at once. He hath much imagination, for he selleth a 
complete set of capital harness, of which there be no traces. He 
advertiseth a coach, warranted on its first wheels, and truly the hind 
yiair are wanting to the bargain. A carriage that hath travelled 
twenty summers and winters, he describeth well-seasoned. He 
knocketh down machine-horses th.it havt* been knocked up on the 
road, but is so tender of heart to his animals, that he parttth with 
none for a fault ; "for," as he sayeth, "blindness or lameness be mis- 
fortunes." A nag, proper only for dog's meat, he writeth down, but 
* Comic Annual, 1832. 



A HORSE DEALER, 



445 



crieth up, "fit to go to any hounds ;" or, as may be, " would suit a 
timid gentleman." Strini;-halt he calleth "grand action," and kicking 
'lifting the feet well up." If a mare hnve the farcical disease, he 
n.imeth her " out of Comedy," and selleth Blackbird for a racer because 
he h.ith a running thrush. Horses that drink only water, he justly 
warranteth to be " temperate," and if dead lame, declareth them " good 
in all their paces," seeing that they can go but one. Roaring he 
calleth "sound," and a steed that high bloweth in running, he com- 
pareth to Eclipse, for he outstrippeth the wind. Another might be 
entered at a steeplechase, for why — he is as fast as a church. Thorough- 
pin with him is synonymous with '' perfect leg." If a nag cougheth, 
tis " a clever hack." If his knees be fractured, he is " well brol'.e for 




Rear Admiral. 

gig or saddle." If he reareth, he is "above sixteen hands hii^h." If 
he iiath drawn a tierce in a cart, he is a good fencer. If he biteth, he 
shows good courage ; and he is playful merely, though he should pl.iy 
the devil. If he runneth away, he calleth him " off the Gretna Road, 
and has been used to carry a lady." If a cob stumbleth, he consider- 
eth him a true goer, and addeth " The proprietor parteth from him to 
go abroad." Thus, without much profession of religion, yet is lie truly 
Christian-like in practice, for he dejlcth not in detraction, and would 
not disparage the character even of a brute. Like unto Love, he is 
blind unto all blcmislu'S, and seeth only a virtue, meanwhile hegazeth 
at a vice. He taketh the kick of a nag's hoof like a love token, saying 



r446 



THE FALL. 



only, before stnnders-by, "Poor fellow! he knowethme!" — and is 

Content rather to pass as a bad rider, than that the horse should be 
held restive or over-mettlesome, which di^charyes him from its back. 
If it hath bitten him beside, ynd moreover bruised his limb ayainst a 
coach-whetl, then, con^t.aitly returning good lor e\ il, he giveth it but 
the better charac ter, and recommendcth it beiore ail the studs in his 
st:ible. In short, the m orse a horse m.'v be. the mote he chanieth his 
piai-e, like a crow that crow eth over Old Bail, whose lot it is on a 
common to meet with the Common Lot. 



THE FALL* 

" Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." 

Count Fathom. 

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Nia>^ara falls, 
Wliere eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls ; 
Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, 
And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope ; 




The Fall of St Lawrence. 



While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave 
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave ; 
* Comic Annual, 1S33. 



THE FALL. 



447 



And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss ; 

One — only one — hath ever lived to rise from tliat abyss ! 

(j Heaven I it turns me now to ice, \\ith chill of fear extreme, 

To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous strtam ! 

In vain with desperate smews, strung by love of life and light, 

I urged that coffm, my canoe, against the current's mi.^ht : 

On — on — still on — direct for doom, the river rush'd m force, 

And fe.irfully clie stream of Time raced with it in its course. 

IVIy eyes I closed — I dared not look the way towards the goal ; 

l)ut still I view'd the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. 

Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, 

And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore ; 

Plainly — but with no prophet sense — I heard the sullen sound, 

The torrent's voice — and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round. 

a<:ony ! O life ! My home ! and those that made it sweet : 
Ere 1 could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. 

With irightful whirl, more swift than thought, 1 pass'd the dizzy edge, 
Bound after bound, with hideous bfuise, 1 dash'd from ledge to ledge, 
From crag to crag, — in speechless pain, — from midnight deep to deep ; 

1 did not die,^but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep. 
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: 
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind ; 

And through my brain there thrill'd a cry, — a cry as shrill as birds' 
Of vulture or of eagle kind, — but this was set to words : — 
" It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares ! 
He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs ! * 




A Cataract 



THE ILL UMINA TL* 

" Light, I say,, light 1 "■ -Othellow 

THOSE who liave peeped into the portfolios of Mr Geoffrey Coycc- 
wiil easily remember his graphic sketches of a locality called 
Little lirit, in, a:id his amusing portraits of its two leadinjj f.imiiics, 
the Lambs and the Trotters. I im gine the deserved popularity of 
the draughtsman made him much in request at routs, soirdes, and 
conversazioni, or so acute an observer would not have failed to notice 
a nocturnal characteristic of the s.ime neighbourhood, — I mean the 
frequent and alarming glares of light thdt illuminate its firmament ; but 
in snite of which, no parish engine rumbles down the steps of St Bo- 
tolph, the fire-ladders hang undisturbed in their chains, and the turn- 
cock smokes placidly in the taproom of the Rose and Crown. For 
this remarkable apathy, my own more domestic habits enable me. to 
account. 

It is the fortune, or misfortune, of the house where I lodge, to con- 
front that of Mr VVix, " Wax and Tallow Chandler to his Majesty ; " 
and certainly no individual ever burned so much to evince his loyalty. 
He and liis windows are always framing an excuse for an illumination. 

The kindling aptitude ascribed to Eupyrions, and Lucifers, and 
Chlorate Matches, is nothing to his. Contrary to Hoyle's rules for loo, 
a single court card is sufficient with him for " a bl ize." He knows 
and keeps the birthdays of all royal personages, and shows by tallow 
in tins how they wax in years. As sure as the Park guns go off in 
the mornin'.;, he fires his six-pounders in the evening ; as sure as a 
newsman's horn is sounded in the street, it blows the same spark into 
a flame. In some cases, his inflammability was such, he has been 
known to ignite, and exhibit fire, where he should have shed water. 
He was once — it is still a local joke — within an ace of rejoicing at 
Marr's Murder. 

During the long war he was really a nuisance, and what is worse, 
not indictable. For one not unused to the melting mood, he was 
strangely given to rejoicing. Other people were content to lij^ht up 
for the great victories, but he commemorated the slightest skirmishes. 
In civil events the same, whether favourable to Whig or Tory. Like 
tiie lover of llessy Hell and Mary Gray, he divided his flame between 
them. He lighted when the Administration of the Duke of Wellington 
cmie in, and he lighted when it went out, — in short, it seemed, as with 
the Roman Catliolics, that candle-burning was a part of his religion, 
and that he had ^ot his religion itself from an illuminated missal. 

To aggravate this propensity, Mr Sperm, the great oil merchant, 
lives nearly opposite to Mr Wix, and his principle and his interest 
coincide exactly with those of his neiL,fhbour. Mr Sperm possesses a 
Very large star, — and, like certain managers, he brings it for\\ard as 
often as he can. He is quite as l.ix in his political creed as the chandler, 
and will light up on the lightest occasions, — for instance, let there b« 
* Comic Amittal, 1832. 



THE ILI.UMINATL 449 

but a peal of bells, and the Genius of the Rinj directly invokes the 
Genius of the Lamp. In short, Mr Wix and Mr Sperm both resemble 
the same thing — a merchant-man getting rid of goods by means of 
lighters. 

As the other inhabitants do not always choose to follow the example 
of these two, I have known our illuminations to be very select — the 
great oil and tallow establishments blazmg all alone in their glory. 
On other occasions— for instance, the rejoicings tor that Bill which 
Lord L. calls a Bill of Panes and Penalties — I have seen our street 
assume the motley appearance of a chessboard, alternately dark and 
bright — to say nothing of Mrs Frampton's lodging-house, where ever;/ 
tenant was of a different sentiment— and the several floors afforded a 
striking example of the CI. ire Obscure. 

Among general illuminations, I remember none more so than the 
one on the accession of his late Majesty — but what so universally 
brightened the Great Britain might be expected to light the Little 
one. It was in reality an unrivalled exhibition of its kind, and I pro- 
pose therefore to give some account of it, the situation of my apartment 
having afforded unusual opportunities — for it is at the angle of a 
corner house, and thus while its easterly windows stare into those of 
the Rumbold family, its northern ones squint aside into the sashes of 
that elderh spinster Miss Winter, 

It must have been an extreme fit of loyalty that put such a thought 
into the penurious mind of Miss W., but she resolved for once in 
her life to illuminate. I could see her at a large dining-table— so 
called by courtesy, for it never dined — reviewing a regiment of glass 
custard-cups — so called also by courtesy, for they never held custard — 
and another division of tall jelly-glasses, equally unknown to jelhes. 
I might hive thought that she meant for once to give a very liglit 
supper, had I nut seen her fill them all with oil from a little tin can, 
and afterwards she furnished them with a floating wick. They were 
then ranged on the window-frame, alternately tall and short ; and 
after this costly preparation, which, by the heaving of her neckerchief, 
she visibly sighed over, she folded her arms demurely before her, and, 
by the light of her solitary rush taper, sat down to await the extrava- 
gant call of " Light up ! " 

The elder Miss Rumbold — the parents were out of town — was not 
idle in the meantime. She packed ail the little R.'s off to bed — (I 
did not see them have any supper) — and then, having got rid of the 
family .anches, began on the tin ones. She had tixed her headquar- 
ters ii? the drawing-room, from whence I saw Caroline and Henry 
detached, with separate parcels of tins and candles, to do the same 
office for the floors above and bTow. But no such luck ! After a 
while, the street door gently opened, and forth sneaked the two 
deserters, of course to see better illuminations than their own. At 
the slam of the door oehind them Miss Rumbold comprehended the 
full calamity: first, she threw up her arms, then her e\es, then 
clenched her teeth and then her hands ; going through all the p.in- 
tomine for distress of mind — but she had no time for grieving, and 
indeed but little for rejoicing. Mr Wix's was beginning to glitter. 
Tearing up and down stairs like a lamplighter on .<iis ladder, she fur- 

2 F 



4^d 



THE ILfMMINATl. 



nislicd all the blank windows, nnd then returned to the drawing-room ; 
and what was evidently her favourite fancy, she had completed and 
hung vip two festoons of artificial flowers ; but alas ! her stock ofi 
hand fell short a whole foot of the third window — I am afraid for 
want of the very bouquet in Caroline's borinet. Removing ths unfor- 
tunate garlaiids, she rushed out full speed, and the next moment I 
saw her in the story ab'ove, rapidly unp'apering her curls, arid making 
herself as fit as time allowed, to sit in state in the drawing-room, by 
the light of twenty-seven long sixes:, ^ '' 

A violent uproar now recalled my attentioii' t6 .Nurh'feer 29, where 
the mob had begun to call, out' to '^liss \Vintet for her Northern 
Lights. Miss W: was'at her post pnd rushed, with her rush to 
comply with the demand: but a siid'den twitter of nervousness 
aggravating^ her old palsy, she, c6uld not persuade her wavering 
taper to alight on any cne of the cottons. There was a deal of 
coquetting indeed between wick and wick, but nothing like a mutual 
flame. In vain the thin Ipver-like candle kept hovering over its 




All at, Sixes and Sevens.. , . 

intended, and shedding tears of grease at every repulse ; not a glimmer 
replied to its glance, till at last, weary of love and light, it fairly I'-aped 
out of its till socket, and drowned its own twinkle in a taU jelly-glass. 
The patience of the mob, already of a thin texture, was torn to rags 
by this conclusion; they saw that if she would, Miss Winter never 
<re«/d? illuminate : but as this was an unwelcome truth, they broke it 



THE ILLUMrNATT. 45I' 

to het with ai volley of stones, that destroyed her little Vauyhall in a 

mcment, and in a twinkle left her nothing to twinkle with ! 

Shocked at this catastrophe, I turned with some anxiety to Miss 
Rumbold's, but with admirable presence of mind she had lighted 
every alternate candle in her windows, and, was thus able to present 
a respect. ible front at a short notice. The mob, however, made as 
much uproar as at Miss Winter's, thoug^h the noise was different in 
character, and more resembled the boisterous merriment which attends 
upon Punch. In fact, Miss Rumbokl had a Fantoccini overhead she 
little dreamt of. .'\wakened by the unusual light, the youn.i^er Rum- 
holds had rushed from bed to the window, where, exhilarated by 
childish spirits and ihe appearance of a gala, they had got up an 
extempore Juvenile Ball, and were dancing with all their might in 
their liitle nightcaps and. nightgowns. In vain the unconscious 
Matilda pointed. to her candles, and added her own private pair from 
the table to the centre window ; in vain she wrung her hands, or 
squeezed them on her bosom : the more she protested in dumb show, 
the more the mob shouted ; and the more the mob shouted, the wilder 
the imps jigged about. At last Matilda seemed to take some hint ; 
she vanished from the drawing-r<iom like a ghost, and reappeared 
like a Fury in the nursery— a pair of large hands ^■ii^orously flourished 
and flogged — the heels of the Corps de Ballet flew up higher than 
their heads— the mob shcuted louder than ever — and exeunt omnes. 

This interlude being over, the rabole moved on to Mr Wix's. whose 
every window, as usual, shone '-like nine good deeds in a nau;_;hty 
world," and he obtained nine cheers for the display. Poor Mr Sperm 
was not so fortunate. He had been struggling manfully with a sharp 
nor-westcr to light up his star, but one obstinate limb persisted in 
showing which way the wind blew. It was a point not to be gained, 
and th(Migh far from red hot, it caused a hiss that reached even to 
Number 14, and frightened all the Fiowerdews. Number 14, as the 
Clown expresses it in Twelfth NiL;ht, was "as lustrous as ebony." In 
vain Mrs Flowerdew pie ided from one window, and Mr Flowerdew 
harangued from the other, while Flowerdew junior hammered and 
tugued ;it the space between ; the glaziers and their friends unglazed 
everything ; and I hope the worthy family, the next time they have a 
Crown and Anchor, will remember to h.ive them the right side upper- 
most. Green and yellow lamps decline to hang upon hooks that are 
topsyturvy, and the blue .md red are just as particular. 

I lor.L;ot to say that during the past proceedings my eyes had fre- 
quently i^lmced towards Number 28. Its occupier, Mr Brookbank, 
was in sojp.e remote way connected witli the roy.il hausehold, and had 
openly expressed his intention of surprising Little Britain. And in 
truth Little Britain was surprised enough when it beheld at Mr 
Brookbank's nothing but a few sorry flambeaux: he taiki d to the 
mob, indeed, of a transparency of Peace and Plenty, but as they could 
see no sign of either, and they had plenty of stones, they again broke 
the peace. I am sorry to say that, in this instance, the mob were 
wrong, for th xt was 'a transparency, but as it was lighted from the 
outer side, Mr B.'s Peace and Pientv smiled on nobody but him- 
self. 



45* 



THE ILLUMINATL 



There was only one more disorder, and it occurred at the very house 
that I help to inhabit Not that we were dim by any means, for we 
had been liberal customers to Mr Sperm and to Mr Wix : the tallow 
of one flared in all our panes, and the oil of the other fed a brilliant 
W. P. Alas ! it was these fiery initials, enigmatical as those at Bel- 
shazzar's banquet, that caused all our troubles. The million could 
make out the meaning of the W, but the other letter, divided in con- 
jecture among them, was literally a split P. Curiosity increased to 
furiosity,^ and what might have happened nobody only knows, if my 
landlady had not proclaimed that her W had spent such a double 
allowance of lamps, that her R had been obliged to retrench. 

To aid her oratory, the rabble were luckily attracted from our own 
display by a splendour greater even than usual at Number 9. The 
warehouseman of Mr Wix — like Master like Mail — had got up an 
illumination of his own, by leaving a firebrand among the tallow, that 




Ignis Fatuus. 

soon caused the breaking out of an Insurnction in Grease, and where 
candles had hitherto been lighted only by Retail, they were now ignited 
by Wholesale ; or, as my landlady said— "All the fat was in the fire !" 
I ventured to ask her, when all was over, what she thought of the 
lightiui^-up, and she gave me her 0|>inion in the following sentiment, 
in the prayer of which I most heartily concur. " Illuminations,'' she 
said, " were very pretty things to look at, and no doubt new Kings 
ought to be illuminated ; but what with the toil, and what with the 
oil, and what with the grease, and what with the mob, she hoped it 
would be long, very long before we had a new King again ! * 



453 




Four Inside. 



CONVE YANCING* 

Oh, London is the place for all 

In love with loco-motion ! 
Still to and fro the people go 

Like billows of the ocean ; 
Machine or man, or caravan, 

Can all be had for paying, 
When great estates, or heavy weights, 

Or bodies want conveying. 

There's always hacks about in packs, 

Wherein you may be shaken. 
And Jarvis is not aiwa\ s drunk. 

Though al\va\s overtaken; 
In racing tricks he'll never mix, 

His nags are in their last days, 
And slow to go, although they show 

As if they had their^j/ days I 

Then if you like a single horse, 

This age is quite a cab-age, 
A car not quite so small and light 

As those of our Queen Mab age ; 
The horses have been broken well. 

All danger is rescinded, 
For some have broken both their knets^ 

And some are broken-winded. 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



(54 CONVEYANCING. 

If you've a friend at Chelsea end, 

The stages are vvorth knowing ; 
There is a sort, we en 11 'em short, 

Although the longest going — 
For some will stop at Hatchett's shop 

Till you grow feint and sicky. 
Perched up behind, at last to find 

Your dinner is all dickey I 

Long stages run from every yard ; 

But if you're wise and frugal, 
You'll never go with any Guard 

That plays upon the bugle, 
"Ye banks and braes," and other lays, 

And ditties everlasting, 
Like miners going all your way, 

With bori7ig and with blasting. 

Instead of journeys, people now 

May go upon a Gtirncy, 
With steam to do the hurses' work, 

B\- powers of afiorney ; 
Though with a load it may explode, 

And you may all be //;/-done !' 
And find \ ou're going up to Heaven^ 

Instead of up to Lotidon I * 

To speak of every kind of coach, < 

It is not my intention : 
But there is still one vehicle 

Deserves a little mention ; 
The world a sage has call'd a stage^ 

With all its hving lumbi-r. 
And Malthus swears it always bears 

Above the proper number. 

The law will transfer house or land 

For ever and a day hence, 
For lighter things, watch, brooches, ring9| 

You'll n'^ver want conveyance ; 
Ho! stop the thief ! my handkerchief I 

It is no sight for laughter — 
Away it goes, and leaves my nose 

To join in runnm^i after I 



455 




Van iJemoii's Lund. 



A LETTER FROM A SETTf.ER TOR LITE LN 
VAN DIEM EN'S LAND* 

To Mary, fii^Nq. 45 Motaii Street Grosveiior Square. 

DEAR MARY — Littel did I Think wen I ad\ertisd in the Tims for 
annother Plaice of taking van in Vandemin's land. ISut so it 
his and hear 1 am arhung Kangerooses and S..vidt;es and other Fciri- 
ners. But goverment ofiering to Yung Wimmin to find them in 
Viitles and Drink and Close and Husbands was turms not to be 
sneazed at, so I virit .to the Outlandisii Seckertary and he was so Kind 
as Grant. 

Wen this cums to Hand go to Nuniber 22 Pirnpernel Plnice And 
mnid and go betwixt Six and sevin P"or your own Sake cos then the 
famniilys Having Diner .^ivemy i<ind love to nctty Housini^d and Say 
I am safe of my Jumey'to Forrifi parts And I hope Master as heveT 
Mist the wine and brought Tliem into trubble on My accounts. But 
I did net Like to leav for Ever And Ever without treeting my Frends 

* CoimIo AiMuial, 1833. 



456 A LETTER FROM A SETTLER, 

and feller servants and Drinking to all their fairwells. In my Fliiry 
iven the Bell rung I forgot to take My own Key out of missis Tekaddy 
but I hope sum wan had the thought And it is in Good hands but 
sh.U Be obleeged to no. Lickwise thro my Loness of Sperrits my 
lox of Hares quite went out of My Hed as wns prommist to Be giv 
to Gorge and Wilkim and the too Futmen at the too Next dores But 
I hop and Trust betty picifid them with lox of Her hone as I begd to 
Be dun wen I rit Her from dover. O Mary wen I furst see the dover 
Wite clifts out of site wat with squemishness and Felings I all most 
repentid givin Ingland warning And had douts if 1 was goin to 
better my self. But the stewerd was verry kind tho I could make 
Him no returns xcept by Dustin the ship for Him And helpin to 
wash up his dishes. Their was 50 moor Young Wimmin of us and 
By way of passing tim We agread to tell our Histris of our selves 
t iken by Turns But they all turned out Alick we had All left on 
acount of Testacious masters And crustacious Mississis and becos the 
Wurks was to much For our Strenths but betwixt yew and Me the 
reel truths was beeing Flirted with and unprommist by Perfidus yung 
men. With sich exampils befour there Minds I wunder sum of them 
was unprudent enuff to Lissen to the Salers whom are coverd with 
Fitch but iamus for Not Stiking to there Wurds. has for Me the 
Mate chose to be verry Partickler wan nite Setting on a Skane of 
Rops but I giv Him is Anser and lucky I did for Am infourmd he as 
Got too more Marred Wives in a state of Biggamy thank Goodness 
wan can marry in new Wurlds without mates. Since I have bean in 
My pressent Sitiation I have had between too and three offers for My 
Hands and expex them Evry day to go to fistcufs about Me this is 
sum thing lick treeting Wimmin as Wimmin ought to be treetid Nun 
of your s.irsy Buchers and Backers as brakes there Prommissis tiie 
sam as Pi Crust wen its maid Lite and siirivvry And then laffs in Your 
face and say tiiey can have anny Gal tliey lick round the Square. I 
dont menshun nams but Eddard as drives the Fancy bred will no Wat 
1 mean. As soon as ever the Botes rode to Land I don't agrivate the 
Truth to say their was haf a duzzin Bows apeace to Hand us out to 
shoar and sum go so Far as say they was offered to thro Specking 
Trumpits afore they left the Shiuside. Be that as it May or may 
Nc)t 1 am toiild We maid a Verry pritty site all Wauking too and 
too in our bridle wite Gownds with the Union Jacks afore Us to 
pay humbel Respex to kernel Arther who behaived verry Gentle- 
manny and Complementid us on our Hansom apearances and Pur- 
litely sed he Wisht us All in the United States. The Salers was so 
gallaunt as giv three chears wen We left there Ship and sed if so be 
they had not Bean without Canons they Wood have saiutid us all 
round. Servents mite live Long enuff in Lonnon without Being sich 
persons of Distinkshun. For my hone Part, camming amung strangers 
and Pig in Pokes, prudence Dicktatid not to be askt out At the verry 
furst cumming in hovvsumever All is setteld And the match is aproved 
off t)y Kernel Arther and the Brightish goverment, who as agread to 
giv me away, thems wat I call Honners as we used to Say at wist. 
Wan thing in My favers w.is my voice and my noing the song of the 
Plane Gould Ring witch the Van Demons had never Herd afore I 



A LETTER FROM A SETTLER. 457 

wood recummend all as meens cumming to Bring as menny of the 

fasliinoable Songs and Ballets as they Can — and to get sum nolliges 
of music as fortnately for me I was Abel to by meens of praxtising on 
Missis Piney Forty wen the fammily Was at ramsgit. of Coarse you 
and betty Will xpect Me to indulge in Pear-onaliiti'^ about my intendid 
to tell Yew wat he is lick he is Not at All lick Edd.ird as driv the 
Fancy lued and Noboddy else yew No. I wood send yew His picter 
Dun by himself only its no more lick Him then Chork is to Cheas. 
In spit of the Short Tim for Luv to take Roots I am convinst he is 
very Passionet of coarse As to his temper I cant Speek As yet ns I 
h v not Tride it. O m;iry littel did 1 think too Munth ago of sending 
\evv Brid Cake and W'eddin favers wen I say this I am only Fi^igering 
in speich for Yew must Not look for sith Thmgs from this Part of 
the Wurld I dont mean this by Way of discurridgement Wat I meen 
to say is this If so be Yung Wiminin prefers a state of Silly Bessy 
they Had better remane ware they was Born but as far as Reel down 
rite Coarting and no nonsens is concarnd This is the Plaice for my 
Munny a Gal has only to cum out hear And theirs duzzens will jump 
at hei like Cox at Gusberris it will Be a red kindnes to say as Aluch 
to Hannah at 48 and Hester Brown and Peggy Oldfield and partickler 
poor Charlotte they needent Fear about being Plane for Yew may tell 
Tliem in this land Faces dont make stumbling Blox and if the Hole 
cargo was as uggly As sin Lots wood git marrid. Deer Mary if so Be 
you feel disposd to cum Out of Y'our self I will aford evry Falicity 
towards your ha[)iness. I dont want to hurt your Felines but since 
the Cotchman as giv yew up I dont think Yew have annother String 
to your Bo to say nothink of Not l^eing so young As yew was Ten 
Yeer ago and faces Will ware out as well as scrubbin brushes, theirs a 
verry nice yung man is quite a Willin to offer to Yew providid you 
cum the verry Next vessle for He has Maid up his mind not to Wait 




Ring-Dovos. 



bevond the Kupid and Sikey, as the ship is on the Pint of Saling I 
cant rite Moor at pressent xcept for them as has shily shalying sweat 
harts to Thretten with cumming to Vandemins And witch will soon 
sho wether its Cubbard Love or true Love I have seen Enuff of Bows 



45& EnCUREA-N REMINISCENCES OF 

tlroping in at superlime and falling out the next morning after borrowin 
Wans wjges. Wen yew see anny Frcnds giv my Distant love to 
Them and say My beini; Gone to annother wurld dont impear my 
Menimery but I often Thinks of Number 22 and the two Next 
Dores. yew may Disclose my matter) monial Piospex to betty as we 
have always had a Deal of Confidens. And I remane with the Gratest 
asurance Your affexionat Frend 

I jfij I , Stisan Gale — as his to be Simco. 

P.S. Deer mary my Furst Match beeing broi-ce off short hope Yew 
will not take it'll! but I have Marrid the yung Man as was to Hav 
waited for Yew but as Yew hav never seen one Annother trusts yew 
will Not take Him to hart or abrade by Return of Postesses he has 
behaved Perfickly honnerable And has got a verry United frend ot his 
Hone to be atacht to Yew in lew of Him. adew. 



SONNET.* 

Allegory — A moral vehicle. — Dictiomtry. 

I HAD a oig-horse, and I called him Pleasure, 

Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt. 
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure ; 

AkhouLjh he sometimes kick'd, and shied aslant 
I had a chaise, and chnsten'd it Enjoyment, 

With yellow body, and the wheels of red, 
Because 'twas only used for one employment, 

Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led. 
I had a wife, her nickname was Delii^ht ; 

A son called Frulic, who was never still : 
Alas ! how often daik succeeds to bright ! 

DeIi,L;ht was thrown, and Frolic had a spill, 
Enjoyment was upset and shatter'd quite, 

And Pleasure fell a splitter oa Paine' s HUH 



EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTL 
MENTALIST.\ 

" My Tables t Meat if is, / st-t it down I " — Hamlbt;' 

I THINK it was spring — but not certain I am— 

When my passion began 6rst to work : 
But I know we were certainly looking for lamb, 

And the season uas over for pork. 

'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I. met with Miss Chase, 
Yes. — for Morris h..d nsk'd me to dine,— 

* romic Anr.urJ, 1S30, t Coaiic Annual, iSjI.- 



A ^SENTIMENTALIST. 4S9 

And I tliGflght I had never beheld such a face,' 
Or so noble a turkey and chine. 

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild 

Willi sheer envy to witness my luck ; 
How she biush'd as I i^ave her some turtle, and smiled 

As 1 aftferwards offer'd some duck. 

I look'd and I languish'd, alas ! to my cost, 

Through three courses'of dishes and meats ; 
Getting deeper in.Iove-^-but.my heart was quite lost . 

Whfein It came to the trifle and sweets ! 

Wfth a' t^nt-rdll that told of my houses and land. 

To hi'x parents I told my designs — 
And then to herself I presented my hand, 

With a very finepottle of pines ! 

I asls-ed her tb have me for weal or for woe, 

And she did not object in the least ; — 
I can't tell fhe date — but we married, I know, 

Just in time to have game at the feast. 

We went to '—, it certainly was the seaside ; 

For the next, the most blessed of morns, 
I remember .how fondly I .i;azed at my bride, 

Sitting down to a plateful of prawns. 

Oil, never may memory lose sight of that year, 

But still hallow the time as it ought ; 
That season the " grass" was remarkably dear, 

And die peas at a L^uinea a quart. 

So happy, like hours, all our days seem'd to haste, 

A fond pair,- su^-h as poets have drawn, 
So united^.m heart — so congenial in taste, 

We were both of us partial to brawn ! 

A long life I look'd for of bliss with my bride, 

But then Death- 1 ne'er dreamt about that I 
Oh, there's nothin;^^ is certain in life, as I cried 

When my turbot eloped with the cat { 

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, 

But the cause no physician cou'd n ib ; 
But something it seem'd like consumption, I fear^ 

It was just after supping on crab. 

In vain she was doctor'd, in vain she was do?ed, 

Still her strength ancl her appetite pined ; 
She lost relish for what she had relish'd the nn'St, 

Even salmon she deeply declnied ! 



46o SAINT MARK'S EVE. 

For months still I linger'd in hope and in doubt, 
While her form it grew wasted and thin ; 

But the last dying spark of existence went out 
As the oysters were just coming in ! 

She died, and she left me, the saddest of men, 

To indulge in a widower's moan ; 
Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then, 

As 1 ate my first natives alone ! 

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, 
And with sorrow ful cr.ipe on their hats, 

Oh, my grief pour'd a flood ! and the out-of-door folks 
Were all crying — I think it was sprats ! 




'The City Remembrancer." 



SAINT MARK'S EVE, 

A TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME.* 

" 'T^HE Devil choke thee with un ! " — as Master Giles the Yeoman 
X. said this, he banged dov\ n a hand, in size and col ur hke a ham, 
on the old-fashioned o..k table;— ''I do say the Devil choKe thee 
with un I" 

The Dame made no reply : — she was choking with passion and a 
fov I's liver — the original cause oi the disinite. A great deal has been 
said and sun^' of the advantage of congenial tastes amongst married 
peo le, but true it is, the variances of our Kentish couple aro.se from 
this very coincidence in gusto. They were both fond of the little 
delicacy in question, but the Dame had managed to secure the morsel 
for herself, and this was sufficient to cause a storm of very high words, 
— which, propt-rly understood, signifies very low langua;;e. Their 
meal-times seldom passed over without some contention oJ the sort, — s 
sure as the knives and forks clashed, so did they — being, in fact, equally 
* Comic Annual, 1830. 



SAINT MARK'S EVE. 



461 



greedy and disagreedy — and when they did pick a quarrel, they picked 
it to the bone. 

It was re 'orted that on some occasions they had not even contented 
themselves with hard speeches, but that thty had come to scuffling — 
he taking to boxing, and she to pinching — though in a far less ami- 




Boxer and Fincher. 



cable manner than is practised by the takers of snuflF. On the present 
difference, however, they were satisfied with"wishmg each other dead 
with all their hearts" — and there seemed little doubt of the sincerity 
of the aspiration, on looking at their malignant faces, — for they made 
a horrible picture in this frame of mind. 

Now it happened that this quarrel took place on the morning of St 
Mark,— a saint who was supposed on that Festival to favour his 
votaries with a peep into the Book of Fate. For it was the popular 
belief in those days, that if a person should keep watch towards mid- 
night, beside the church, the apparitions of all those of the parish who 
were to be taken by Death betore the next anniversary would be seen 
entering the porch. The Yeoman, like his neighbours, believed most 
devoutly in this superstition ; and in the very moment that he breathed 
the unseemly aspiration aforesaid, it occurred to him that the Even 
was at hand when, by observing the rite of St Mark, he mi;^ht know 
to a certainty whether this unchristian wish" was to be one of those 
that bear fruit. Accordingly, a little before midnight he stole quietly 
out of the house, and in something of a sexton-like spirit set forth on 
his way to the church. 

In the meantime the Dame called to mind the same ceremonial: and 
having the like motive for curiosity with her husband, she also put on 
her cloak and calash, and set out, though by a different path, on the 
same errand. 

The night of the saint was as dark and chill as the mysteries he 



462 



SAINT MARK'S EVE. 



was supposed to reveal, the moon throwing but a short occasional 
glance, as the sluggish masses of cloud were driven slowly across her 
face. Thus it fell out th.it our two adventurers were quite unconscious 
of being in company, till a sudden glimpse of moonlight showed them 




Second Sight. 

to each other, only a few yards apart— both, through a natural panic, 
as pale as ghosts, and both making eagerly lowaids ihe cluurh piTch. 
M IK h as ihcy had just wished for this vision, they.co.uld not help 
qu king rind stopping on the £i:)Ot, as if turned to a pair of tombstones, 
;ind in this position the dark a.t;ain threw a sudden curtain over them, 
and they disappeared from each other. 

It .will be supposed ihe two came only to one conclusion, each con- 
ceiving, that St Mark had marked the other to himself. With this 
comfortnble knowledge, the widow and widower .elect hie(^,h,ome aj^ain 
\>\ the roads ihey came* ; and as their custom was to sit apart alter a 
qur.rrel, they repaired, each ignorant of the other's excursion, to 5epa- 
raie chambers. 

By and by. being called to supi cr, instead of sulking as aforetime, 
they came dovvn together, each being secretly in the best humour, 
though muuially suspected of the worst; and amongst other things 
on the table, there was. a calf's sweetbread, bcing;:;one;Of those very 
d.ainties that had often set them together by the ears. The Dame 
looked and lo;i;4ed, but she refrained from its appropriation, .thinking 
within herselt that she could give up %\\Q.it\.\:ixc-x\i, Jor une year : a.nd 



SAINT MARK'S EVE. 463 

the Farmer made a similar reflection. After pushing the dish to nnd 
fro several times, by a common impulse they divided the treat ; and 
then, having supped, they retired amicably to rest, whereas until then, 
they had never gone to bed without falling out. The' truth w;is, each 
looked upon the other as being already in the churchyard mould, or 
quite "moulded to their wish." 

On the morrow, which happened to be the Dame's birthday, the 
Fanner was the first to w.dce. and knoT'ing ivhat he kneiu, and having 
besides but just roused himself out of a dream strictly confirmatory of 
the late vigil, he did not scrunle to salute his wife, and wisli her many 
hai'py returns of the day. The wife, who knew as viiich as he, very 
readily wished him the same, having in truth biit just rubbed out of 
her eyes the pattern of a widow's bonnet, that h'ad'been submitted to 
her in her sleep. She took care, however, to give thefowl's liver v.i 
dinner to the doomed man, considering that, when^he was dead and 
gone, she could have them, if she pleased, seven days in the week ; 
and the Farmer, on his part, took care to help her to many tid-bits. 
Their feeling towards each other vvas that of an impatient host with 
rcg.ird to an unwelcome guest, showing scarcely a bare civihty v\hile 
in expe^:tatiori of his stay, but overloading him with hospitality wht-n 
made certain of his dep .rture. 

In this manner they went on for sume six months, and though with- 
out an\ addition of love betwet-n them, and as much selfishness as 
ever, yet living in a subservience to the comforts and inclinntions of 
each other, Sometimes not to be found even amongst couples of sin- 
cerer affections. Tl.ere were as many causes for quarrel as ever, l>ut 
every day it became less worth while to quarrel ; so letting bygom s 
be bygones, they were indifferent to the present, and thought only of 
the future, considering each other (to adopt a common phrase) " as 
g-aod lis de;id." 

Ten months wore away, and the Farmer's birthday arrived in its 
turn. The Dame, who had passed an uncomfortable night, having 
drt-amt, in truth, that she did not much like herself in mourning^ 
s.iluted him as soon as the diy dawned, and with a sigh wished him 
many years to come. The Farmer repaid her in kind, the s gh 
included ; his own visions having been of the painful sort, for he had 
dreamt of havin,; a headache froin wearing a black hatband, and the 
malady still clung to him when awake. The whole morning was 
spent in silent meditation and melancholy on both sides, and when 
dinner came, although the most favourite dishes were upon the table, 
they could not eat. The Farmer, resting his elbows upon the board, 
with his face between his hands, gazed wistfully on his wife,— stoop- 
ing her eyes, as it were, out of their sockets, stripping the flesh off hei" 
cheeks, and in fancy converting her whole head into a mere Caput 
Mortuum. The Dame, leaning back in her high arm-chair, regarded 
the Yeoman quite as ruefully, — by the same process of imagination 
picking his sturdy bones, and bleaching his ruddy visage to the com- 
plexion of a plaster cast. Their minds, travelling in the same direc« 
tion, and at an equal rate, arrived together at the same reflection ; but 
the Farm! r' was the first to give it utterance : 

"Thee'd be miss'd, Dame, if thee were to die !* 



464 SAINT MARK'S EVE. 

The Dame started. Although she had nothing but DeAth at that 
moment before her eyes, she was far from dreaming of her own exit, 
and at this rebound of lier thoughts against herself, she felt as if an 
extra-colci coffin-plate had been suddenly nailed on her clicst ; recover- 
ing, however, from the first shuck, her thoughts flowed into their old 
ch.innci, and she retorted in the same spirit : — " I wish, Master, thee 
may live so long as I ! " 

The Farmer, in his own mind, wished to live rather longer ; for, at 
the utmost, he considered that his wife's bill of mortality had but two 
months to run. The calculation made him sorrowful : durmg the last 
few months she had consulted his appetite, bent to his humour, and 
dovetailed her own inclinations into his, in a manner that could never 
be supplied ; and he thoui^dit of her, if not in the language, at least in 
the spirit, of the Lady m Lalla Rookh — 

"I never taught a bright srazelle 

To watch me with its dark black eye, 
But when it came to know me well, 
And love me, it was sure to die ! " 

His wife, from being at first useful to him, had become agreeable, 
and at last dear ; and as he contemplated her approaching fate, he 
could not help thinking out audibly, " that he should be a lonesome 
m.in when she was gone." The Dame, this time, heard the survivor- 
ship foreboded without starting ; but she marvelled much at what she 
thought the infatuation of a doomed man. So perfect was her faith 
in tlie infallibility of St Mark, that she had even seen the symptoms 
of mortal disease, as palpable as plague spots, on the devoted Yeoman. 
Giving his body up, therefore, for lost, a strong sense of duty persuaded 
her that it was imperative on her, as a Christian, to warn the unsus- 
pecting Farmer of his dissolution. Accordin.;ly, with a solemnity 
adapted to the subject, a tenderness of recent growth, and a Momento 
Muri face, she broached the matter in the following question — 

'* Master, how bee'st?" 

" As hearty, D iine, as a buck," — the Dame shook her head, — "and 
I wish thee the like," at which he shook his head himself. 

A dead silence ensued : — the Farmer was as unprepared as ever. — 
Tliere is a great fancy for breaking tlie truth by dropping it gently, — 
an experiment which has never answered any more than with iron- 
stone china. The Dame felt this, and thinking it better to throw the 
news at her husband at once, she told him in as many words that he 
was a dead man. 

It was now the Yeoman's turn to be staggered. By a parallel 
course of reasoning, he had just wroui^ht himself up to a similar dis- 
closure, and the Dame's death-warrant was just ready upon his tongue, 
when he met with his o.vn des,>atch, signed, sealed, and deliveied. 
Conscience instantly pointed out the 'Tacie irom which she had 
derived the omen, and he turned as pale as " the pale of society " 
— the rolourless complexion of late hours. 

-St Martin had numbered his years; and remainder days seemed 
discounted by St Thomas. Like a criminal east to die, iie doubled li 
the die was cast, and appealed to his wife ; — 



/ 'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 



46S 



" Thee hast watch'd, Dame, at the church porch, then ?" 

"Ay, Master." 

"And thee didst see me spirituously ?" 

" In the brown wrap, with the boot-hose. Thee were coming to 
the church by Fairthorn Gap ; in the while I were coming by the 
holly hedge." — For a minute the Farmer paused — but the next, he 
burst into a til of uncontrollable laughter, peal after peal, and each 
higher than the last, according to the liysterical gamut of the hyzena. 
The poor woman had but one explanation for this phenomenon — she 
thought it a dchrium — a lightening before death, and was beginning 
to wring her hands, and lament, when she was checked by the inerry 
Yeoman : — 

" Dame, thee bee'st a fool. It was I myself thee seed at the church 
porch. 1 seed thee too,— with a notice to quit upon thy face, — but, 
thanks to God, thee beest a-living, and that is more than I cared to 
say of thee this day ten-month !" 




Bear and For-Bear. 

The Dame made no answer Her heart was too full to speak, but 
throwing her arms round her husband, she showed that she shared in 
his sentiment. And from that hour, by practising a careful abstinence 
Irom offence, or a temperate sufferance of its appeaiapce, they became 
the most united couple in the county— but it must be said, that their 
comfort was not complete till they had seen each other in safety over 
the perilous anniversary of St iMaVk's Eve. 



I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN* 

" Double, single, and the rub." — Hoylk. 
" This, this is Solitude." — Byron. 



Well, I confess, I did not guess 

A simple marriage vow 
Would make mc find all womankind 

Such unkind women now ! 
* Comic Annual, 1831. 



2 G 



«6i T I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 

They need not, sure, as distant be 

As Java or Japan, — 
Yet every Miss reminds me this — 

I'm not a single man ! 

II. 
Once they made choice of my bass voice 

To share in each duet ; 
So well I danced, I somehow chanced 

To stand in every set : ; 

They now declare I cannot sing, ;i 

And dance on Ikuin's plan ; 
Me draw — me paint — me anything 1— 

I'm not a single man ! 

III. 
Once I was ask'd advice, and task'd 

What works to buy or not, 
And " would I read that passage out 

I so admired in Scott .'' " 
They then could bear to hear one read ; 

But if I now began, 
How they would snub " My pretty page*<-» 

I'm not a single man ! 

IV. 
One used to stitch a collar then. 

Another henim'd a frill ; 
I had more purses netted then 

Than I could hope to fill. 
I once could get a button on, 

But now I never can — 
My buttons then were Bachelor's— 

I'm not a single man ! 

V. 

Oh, how they hated politics 

Thrust on mc by papa ! 
But now mv cliat, they all leave that 

To entf-nain mamma — 
Mamma, who praises her own self, 
V ,r Instead of Jane.or Ann, 

' And lays " her girls" upon the shelf— 
I'm not a single man ! 

VI. 

Ah me ! how strange it is the change, 

In parlour and in hall ; 
They treat me so, if I but go 

To m ike a morning call. 
If they had hair in papers once, 

Bolt up the stairs they ran ; 



I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 46* 

They now sit still in deshabille— 
I'm not a single man ! 

VII, 
Miss Mary Bond was once so fond 

Of Romans and of Greeks, 
She daily sought my cabinet 

To study my antiques ; 
Well, now she doesn't care a dump 

For ancient pot or pan, 
Her taste at once is modernised^ 

I'm not a single man ! 

VIII. 
My spouse is fond of homely life, 

And all that sort of thing ; 
I go to balls witliout my wife, 

And never wear a ring : 
And yet each Miss to whom I comCf 

As strange as Genghis Khan, 
Knows by some sign, I can't divine^ 

I'm not a single man ! 

IX. 

Go where I will, I but intrude ; 

I'm left in crowded rooms, 
Like Zimmerman on Solitude, 

Or Hervey at his Tombs. 
From head to heel, they make me feel 

Of quite another clan ; 
Compcll'd to own, though left alone, 

I'm not a single man ! 

X. 
Miss Towne, the toast, though she can boast 

A nose of Roman line, 
Will turn up even that in scorn 

Of compliments of mine : 
She should have seen that I have been 

Her sex's partisan, 
And really married all I could — 

I'm not a single man ! 

XI. 
'Tis hard to see how others fare, 

Whilst I rejected stand ; 
Will no one take my arm because 

They cannot have my hand? 
Miss Parry, that for some would go 

i\ trip to Hindostan, 
With nie don't care to mount a stair— 

I'm not a single man ! 



465 



I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 



XII. 

Some change, of course, should be in force, 

But surtly not so much , 
There may be hiinds I may not squeeze, 

But must I never touch r 
Must I forbear to hana a chair 

And not pick up a fan ? 
But I have been myself pick'd up— 

Tm not a single man ! 

xiir. 

Others may hint a Indy's tint 

Is purest red and white — 
May say her eyes are like the skies, 

So very blue ;ind bright ; 
/must not say that she has eyes. 

Or, if I so began, 
I have my fears about my ears — 

I'm not a single man ! 

XIV. 

I must confess I did not guess 

A simple marriage vow 
Would make me find all woman-kind 

Such unkind women now ; 
I mi^^ht be hash'd to death, or smash'd 

By Mr Pickford's van, 
Without, I fear, a sinj^ie tear — 

I'm not a single man ! 




A Bachelor of Hearts, 



469 




A GREENWICH PENSIONER* 

IS a sort of stranded marine animal, that the receding tide of h"fe has 
left high and dry on the shore. He pines for his element like a 
sea-bear, and misses his briny washings and wettings. What the ocean 
could not do, the land does, for it makes him sick: he cannot digest 
properly unless the body is rolled and tumbled about like a barrel- 
churn. Terra-firma is good enou;j;h he thinks to touch at for wood and 
water, but nothing more. 'I'here is no wmd. he swears, ashore — every 
day of his life is a de;id calm, — a thing above all others he detests : 
he would like it better for an occasional earthquake. Walk he 
cannot, the ground being so still and steady that he is puzzled to keep 
his legs ; and ride he will not, for he disdains a craft vvhose rudder is 
forw;ird and not astern. 

Inland scenery is his especial aversion. He despises a tree "before 
the mast," and would give all the singing birds of creation for a 
boatswain's whistle. He hates prospects, but enjoys retrosfiects. An 
old boat, a stray anchor, or decayed mooring-iing, will set him dream- 
ing for hours. He splices sea and land ideas together. He reads of 
" shooting off a tie at Battersea," and it reminds him of a ball carrying 
away his own pigtaik " Canvassing for a situation," recalls running 
with all sails set for a station at Aboukir. He has the advantage of 
our Economists as to the " Standard of Value," knowing it to be the 
British ensign. The announcement of "an arrival of foreign vessels, 
with our ports open," claps him into a paradise of prize money, with 
Poll of the ftnt. He wonders sometimes at " petitions to be dis- 
charged from the Fleet," but sympathises with those in the Marshalsea 
Court, as subject to a sea court-martial. Finally, try him even 'n 
the learned languages, by asking him tor the meaning of " Georgius 
Rex," and he will answer, without hesitation, " The wrecks of the 
Royal George." 

* Comic Annual, 183a 



4ro 



^^^li|l'i kv'/Xi-A'! ••I!L''l'ili 




Enjoying the " Tails of My Landlord. '" 



THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER." 



"Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery Oideal.'" — Hist. Eng 

No mornin-g ever seem'd so long! — 
I tried to read with all my might ! 
In my left hand " My Landlord's Tales," 
And threepence ready in my right. 

*Twas twelve at last — my heart beat liigh ! — 

The postman rattled at the door ! — 

And just upon her road to church, 

I dropt the " Bride of Lammermoor !" 

I seized the note — I fi'W upstnirs — 
Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in j 
With panting h;iste I tore tlie seal, 
And kiss'd the B in Benjamin ! 

* Comic Animal, 1830. 



THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. 

*Twas full of love — to rhyme with dove — 
And all that tender sort of thing — 
Of sweet and meet -and heart and dart — 
But not a word about a ring ! 

In doubt I cast it in the flame, 
And stood to watch the latest spark — 
And saw the love all end in smoke, 
Without a Parson and a Clerk! 



47i 



THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.* 

" Resign'd, I kissed the rod." 

Well ! I think it is time to put up ! 
For It does not accord with my notions, 

Wrist, elbow, ;>nd chine, 

Stiff from throwing the line. 
To take nothing at last by my motions I 




Gentle and Simple. 

I ground-bait my way as I (jo, 
And dip in at each watery dimple; 

But however I wish. 

To inveigle the f.sh. 
To my gentle they will not play simple t 

* Comic Annual, 1 830 



$/» THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL, 

Though my float goes so swimmingly on, 
My bad luck never seems to diminish ; 

It would "seem that the Bream 

Must be scarce in the stream, 
And the Chub, though it's chubbv, be thinnishl 

Not a Trout there can be in the place, 
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention ; 

And although at my hook 

With aite}ttion I look, 
I can ne'er see my hook with a Tejich on I 

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, 
But they seem upon different terms now ;- 

Have thev taken advice 

Of the " Council of Nice" 
And rejected their " Diet of IVorms^ now ? 

In vain my live minnow I spin, 

Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; 

For the gut I have brought, 

I had better have bought 
A good rope that was used to fack-ketclmtgl 

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, 

It is vain in this river to search then ; 

I may wait till it's night, 

Without any bite, 
And at roost-time have never a Perch then I 

No Roach can I meet with — no Bleak, 
Save what in the air is so sharp now; 
Not a Dace have 1 got, 
And I fear it is not ^ 

** Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now I 

Oh, there is not a one-pound prize 
To be got in this fresh-water lottery i 

What then can I deem 

Of so fi shies', a stream. 
But that 'tis— like St Mzirys—Otteryl 

For an Eel I have learn'd how to try. 
By a method of Walton's own showing,—- 

But a fisherman feels 

Little prospect of Eels 
In a path that's devoted to towing I 

I have tried all the water for miles, 
Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, 

And hungry and faint, — 

Let the Fancy just paint 
What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting! 



SEA SONG. 

And the rain drizzles down very fast, 

While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell. 

So, wet to the skin, 

I'll e'en back to my inn, 
Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell 1 



4» 



SEA SONG. 



AFTER DIBDIN. 

Pure water it plays a 5;;ood part in . 

The swabbing the decks and all that— 

And it finds its own level for sartin — 

For it sartinly drinks very flat. 

For my part, a drop of the creatur 

I never could tliink was a fault, 

For if Tars should swig water by natur,:, 

The sea would have never been salt ! 

Then off with it into a jorum, 

And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, 

For if I've any sense of decorum 

It never was meant to be neat ! 

One day when I was but half sober- 
Half measures I always disdain — 




A Bottle Jack. 

I walk'd into a shop that sold soda, 
And a\'d for some w.uer-champagne. 
WfU, the lubber he drew and ne drew, boys, 
Till I'd shi;j')'d my six bottles or mor.', 
And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys, 
Why, I warn't half so drunk as aiore ! 
* Comic Annual, iSjO. 



47» A SINGULAR EXHIBITION 

Then off with it into a jorum. 
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, 
For if I've any sense of decorum, 
It never was meant to be neat. 



A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET 
HOUSE* 

"Our Crummie is a dainty cow." — Scotch Song. 

On that first Saturday in May, •:■'{ 

When Lords and Ladies, £freat and grandj 
Repair to see what each R.A. 
Has done since last they sought the Strand, 
In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue, 
In short, what's call'd the private view, — 
Amongst the guests — the deuce knows how 
She got in there without a row — 




Moving in the First Circles. 

There came a large and vulgar dame. 
With arms deep red, and face the same. 
Showing in temper not a saint ; 4-. 

No one could guess for why she came, "-' 
Unless perchance to " scour the paint." 

From wall to wall she forced her way, 
EUiow'd Lord Durham — poked Lord Grey— 
Stamp'd Stnfford's toes to make him move, 
And Devonshire's Duke received a sho\e ; 
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, 
She mnde the Vice, his Honour, budge, 
And gave a pinch to Park t!ie Judge. 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



A T SOMERSET HOUSE. 475 

As for the ladies, in this stir, 
The highest rank gave way to her. 

From Number one and Number two, 

She searched the pictures through and through, 

On benches stood to inspect the high ones, 

And squatted down to scan the shy ones ; 

And as she went from part to part, 

A deeper red each cheek became, 

Her very eyes ht up in flame, 

That made each looker-on exclaim, 

** Reai'y an ardent love of art ! " 

Alas ! amidst her inquisition, 

Fate brought her to a sad condition ; 

She mi^^ht have run against Lord Milton, 

And still have stared at deeds in oil, 

Bat ah ! her picture-joy to spoil. 

She came full butt on Mr Hilton. 

The keeper, mute, with staring eyes, 

Like a lay-figure for surprise, 

At last thus stammer'd out, " How now ! 

Woman — where, woman, is your ticket. 

That ought to let you through our wicket?" 

Says woman, " Where is David's Cow?" 

Said Mr H., with expedition, 

" There's no Cow in the Exhibition." 

** No Cow ! " — but here her tongue in verity 

Set cfif with steam and rail celerity : — 

* No Cow ! there an't no Cow ! then the more's the shame and pity, 

Hang you and the R.A.'s, and all the Hanging Committee ! 

No Cow — but hold your tongue, for you needn't talk to me — 

You can't talk i.p the Cow, you can't, to where it ought ro be ; 

I haven't seen a picture, high or low, or anyhow, 

Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow. 

You mav ta-.c of your Landseers, and of yotrr Coopers, and yout 

Wards, 
Why, hanf^ing is too good for them, and yet here they are on cords ! 
They're only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street-doors — 
David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars ; 
Why, Morland was a fool to him at a little pig or sow. 
It's really hard it an't hung up — I could cry about the Cow ! 
But I know well what it is, and why — they're jealous of David's fame, 
But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame. 
Do vou think it might hang bye and bye, if you cannot hang it now? 
David has made a party up to come and see his Cow. 
If it only hung three days a week, for an example to tlie learners, 
Whv can't it hang up, turnabout, with that picture of Mr Turner's? 
Or do you think from Mr Etty you need apprehend a row. 
If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow? 



476 



SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE. 



I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a creatiuf, 

Although i say, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature ; 

It must be hung — and shall be hung, for, Mr H., I vow, 

I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow ! 

As we only want it to be seen, I should not so much care, 

If it was only round the stone man's neck, a-coming up the stair ; 

Or down there in the m:irble room, wliere all the figures stand, 

M here one of tjiem Three Graces might just hold it in her hand^ 

Or may be ]3ailey's Charity the favour would allow 

It would really be a chanty to hang up David's Cow. 

We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here. 

The Water-Colour place allows no oilman to appear, 

And the British Gnllery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerrard Douw 

And the Suffolk Gallery will not do— it's not a Suffolk Cow. 

I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals 

Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels ; 

His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby. 

He hardly whipp'd the boys at all, or hclp'd to nurse the babby. 

And when he had her all complete and painted over red, 

He got so grand, I really thought him going off his head. 

Now hang it, Mt Hilton, do just hang it anyhow 

Poor D ivid, he will hang himself unless you hang his Cow ; 

And if it's unconvenient, and drawn too big by bait, 

David slia'n t send next year except a very little call." 




Beet a'la-Daubc 



477 



THE YEOMANRY* 

AMONGST the agitations of the day, there is none more in;acrount« 
L able to a peaceable man in a time of peace than the resistance 
to the disbanding-;' of the Yeomanry. It is of course impossible for any 
one so unconnected with party as myself to divine the mmisteriai 
moiivcs for the measure ; but judging from my own experience, 
1 should have expected that every private at least would have 
mounttd his best hunter to mik- a jump at the offer. It 
appears, however, that a part of the military body in question 
betrays a stiong disinchnation to dismiss ; and certain troops 
have even offered their 
services gratuitously, 
and l)een accepted, al- 
though it is evident that 
such a troop, to be con- 
sistent, ought to refuse, 
when called upon to act, 
to make any charge 
whatever. 

Amongst my Scottish 
reminiscences, I have a 
vivid recollection of 
once encountering;, on 
the road from Dundee 
to Perth, a party of 
soldiers, having in their 
custody a poor fellow in 
the garb of a peasant, 
and secured by hand- 
cuffs. He looked some- 
wliat melancholy, as he 
well might, under the 
uncertainty whether he 
was to be flogged within 
an inch of his life, or 
shot to death, for such 
were tlie uunishments of 

his offence, which I understood to be desertion, or disbnnding himself 
without leave. It was natural to conclude, that no ordinary disgusf at 
a military life would induce a man to incur such heavy penalties. 
With what gratitude would he have acceptt d his discharge ! He would 
surely have embraced the ofl'er of being let off with no outlay of 
gunpowder! And yet he was a regular, in the receipt of pay, and 
with the prospect and opportunity, so rare to our Yeomanry, of winning 
laurels, and covering himself with glory ! 

It has been argued, on high authority, as a reason for retaining the 
troop^ in question, that they are the most constitutional force that 
could be selected ; and truly of their general robustness there can be 

* Comic Annual, 1833. 




A Field Officer. 



478 



THE YEOMANRY. 



but one opinion. However, if a domestic force of the kind ought to 
be kept up, would it not be advisable, and humane, and fair, to ^'ive 
the manufacturing body a turn, and form troops of the sedtntary 
weavers and other artisans, who stand so much more in need of out- 
of-door exercise ? The farmer, from the nature of his business, hMS 
/ield-ddiy^ enough, to say nothing of the charges and throwings-off 
he enjoys in hunting and ccursing, besides riding periodically to and 

from market, or the 
neighbouring fairs. In- 
deed, the true English 
yeoman is generally, 
thanks to the^e sports 
and employments, so 
constantly in the sad- 
dle, that instead of vo- 
lunteering into any 
cavalry, it might be 
supposed he would be 
glad to feel his own 
legs a little, and enjoy 
the household comforts 
of the chimney-corner 
and the elbow-chair. 
As regards their effec- 
tiveness, I have had 
the pleasure of seeing 
a troop hre at a target 
tor a subscription silver 
cup ; and it convinced 
me, that if I had felt 
inchned to roast tiiem, 
their t)wn Jire was the 
very best one lor my 



" I vish ve could be disbiiidy'd." 

purpose. On another occasion I had the gratification of beholding 
a charge, and as ihev succeeded in dispersing themselves, it may l)e 
inferred that they might possibly do as much by a mob. Still there 
seemed hardly excitement enough, or amusement enough, except to 
the spectators, in such playing at soldiers, to induce honest, heariv, 
fox-hunting farmers to wish to become veterans. To tell the truth, 
I ha^e heard before now repentant grumblings from pr. ctical agri- 
culturists, who had too rashly .adopted the uniform, and have seen even 
their horses betray an inclination to back out of the line. I he more 
therefore is my surprise, on all accounts, to hear tliat the Yermanry 
are so unwilling to be dispensed with, and relieved from inactive 
service; for though the song tells us of a "Soldier tired of war's 
alarms," there is no doubt that to a soldier of spirit, the most tire- 
some thing in the world is to have no alarms at all. 

In the meantime, I have been at some pains to ascertain the senti- 
ments of the yeowomanry on the subject, and if they al'l feel in com- 
mon with Dame , the disbanding will be a most popular measure 

aniuiigst the faamers' wives. I had no sooner communitatcd the news, 




AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 479 

through the old lady's trumpet, than she exclaimed, that " it was the 
best hearing she had had for many a long dav ! The sogering work 
unsettled both men and horses— it took her husbnnd's head off his 
business, and it threw herself off the old mare, at the last fair, along 
of a showman's trumpet. Besides, it set all the fnrm servants a-soger- 
ing too, and when they went to the Wake, only old Roger came back 
again to say they had all 'listed. They had more sense, however, than 
their master, for they all wanted to be disbanded the next morning. 
As for the master, he'd never been the same man since he put on the 
uniform ; but had got a hectoring, swaggering way with him, as if 
everybody that didn't agree in politics, and especially about the Corn 
Bill, was to be bored and slashed with sword and pistol. Then there 
was the constant dread that in his practising, cut six would either come 
home to him, or do a mischief to his neighbours ; and after a review- 
ing there was no bearing him, it put him so up in his stirrups, and 
on coming home, he'd think nothing of slivering off all the hoUyoaks 
as he brandished and flourished up the front garden. Another thin;:^, 
and that was no trifle, was the accidents ; she couldn't tell how it was, 
whether he thought too much of himself, and too little of his horse, 
but he always got a tumble with the yeomanry, though he'd fox-hunt 
by the year together without a fail. What was worse, a fall always 
made him crusty, and when he was crusty, he made a point to get 
into his cups, which made him more crusty still. Thank God, as yet 
he had never been of any use to his country, and it was her daily 
prayer that he might never be called out, as he had so many enemies 
and old grudges in the neighbourhood, there would be sure to be mur- 
der on one side or the other. For my own part," she concluded, " I 
think the Pariiament is quite right in these hard times to turn the 
fanners' swords again into ploughshares, for they have less to care 
about the rising of rioters than the falling of wheat." The old lady 
then hunted out what she called a yeomanry letter from her husband's 
brother, and having her permission to make it public, I have thought 
proper to christen it 



AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 

"You ^member Philiphaugh, Sir?" 

" Umph 1 " ^aid the Major, "the less we say about that, John, the better." ,, 

Old MoRTALmr. 

To Mr Robtrt Cherry, the Orchard, Kent, 

Dear Bob, — It's no use your making more stir about the barley. 
Business has no business to stand before king and country, and I 
couldn't go to Ashford Market and the Review at the same time. 
The Earl called out the Yeomanry for a grand field-day at Bumper 
Da:gle Bottom Common, and to say nothing of its being mv horse 
duty to attend, I wouldn't have lost my sight for the whole barley in 
Kent. Besides the Earl, the great Duke did us the honour to come 
and see the troops go through everything, and it rained all the time. 



48o 



AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 



Except for the crops, a more unfavouring day couldn't hr.re b'TCB 

picked out for man or beast, and many a n;ig has got a consequential 

cou:^h. 

The ground was very good, with only one leap, that nobody took, 

but the weather was terribly against It blew equinoxious gales, and 

rained like watermg-pots 
with the rose off. But 
as somebody said, one 
cannot always have their 
reviews cut and dry. 

We set out from Ash- 
ford at ten, and was two 
hours going to Bumper 
Daggle Bottom Com- 
mon, but it's full six 
mile. The Bumper 
Daggle's dress is rather 
handsome and fighting 
like — blue, having a 
turn-up with wh«te, and 
we might have been 
called cap-a-pee, but Mr 
P., the contractor of our 
caps, made them all loo 
small for our heads. 
Luckily the clothes fit, 
except M r Lambert's, who 
couldn't find a jacket big 
enough ; but he scorned 
to shrink, and wore it 
loose on his shoulder, 




' Pour on, I will enduroi 



like a hussar. As for arms,, we had all sorts, and as reg.irds horses, 
I am sorry to say all sorts of leus — what with splints, and quitters, 
and ring-bone, and grease. The Major's, I noticed, had a bad spavin, 
and was no belter for being fired with a ramrod, which old Clinker 
the blacksmith forgot to take out of his piece. 

We mustard Very strong — about sixty— besides two volunteers, one 
an invalid, because he had been ordered to ride for exercise, and the 
other because he liad nothing else to do, and he did nothing when 
he came. We must have been a disac;reeable site to eyes as is 
unaffected towards Government, — thoui;h how Hopper's horse wouid 
behave in putting down riots I can't guess, for he did nothing but 
make revolutions himself, as if he was still in the tlirashin.i^'-inill. But 
you know \omanry an't reglers, and can't be expected to be veterans 
all at once. The worst of our mistakes was about the cullers. Old 
Ensign Cobb, of the White Horse, l\as a Political Union club meets 
at his house, and when he came to iiiifurl, he had brought the wrong 
flag . instead of " Royal Bumper Daggle," it was " No Boromongers." 
It made a reglar horse laugh among the cavalry ; and old Cobb took 
such dudgeon at us, he deserted home to the White Horse, and cut 
the eoncern without drawing a sword. The Captain ordered Jack 



Aff UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 



481 



Blower to sound the recal to him, but sum wag on the rout had stuck 
a bun;:: up his trumpet ; and he galloped oiY just as crusty about it 
as Old Cobb. Our next trouble was with Simkin, but you know he is 
anything but Simkin and Martial. He rid one of his own docked 
waggon-horses — but for appearance sake had tied on a long regulation 
false tale, that made his horse kick astonishing, till his four loose shoes 
flew off like a J^ime at 



koits. Of course no- 
body hked to stand 
nigh him, and he was 
obliged to be drawn up 
in single order by him- 
self, but not having any 
one to talk to, he soon 
got weary of it, and left 
the ground. This "-'^^ 
some excuse ror Iiiv-. — 
but not for Dale, tha 
deserted from his com- 
pany, — some said his 
hoise bolted with him, 
but I'il swear I seed him 
spur. Up to this we had 
only one more deserter, 
and that was Marks, on 
his iron-ijrey mare ; for 
she heard her foal 
wliinnvmg at heme, and 
attended to that call 
rnore than tp a deaf and 
dumb trumpet. Biggs 
didn't come at ail ; he 
had his nag stole that 
verv morning, as it was waiting for him, pistols and all. 

What with these goings off and gaps, our ranks got in such disorder, 
that the Earl, tho' he is a Tory, was obliged to act as a rank Reformer. 
We got into line middling well, as far as the different sizes of our 
horses would admit, and the Duke rode up and down us, and I am 
sorry to say was compelled to a reprimand. Morgan Giles had been 
at-a fox-hunt the day before, and persisted in wearing the brush as a 
feather in his cap. As fox-tnils isn't regulation, his Grace ordered it 
out, but Morgan was very high, and at last threw up his commission 
into a tree, and trotted home to Wickham Ha'' along with Private 
t>!ck, who, as Morgan's «'hipper-in, thought he • ^i under obhgations 
tb follow his ma-=t-r 

We got tine' swgj>.' . nercise decent v ^'1, — ^vily Barber shaved 
Crofts' mare witfe. n\. saix.T. which he needn't have done, as she was 
dipt before : and Holdsworth slashed off his cob's off ear. It was cut 
and run with her in course ; and 1 hone he got safe home. We don't 
know what Hawksley might have thrusted, as his sword objected to 
be called out in wet weather, and stuck to its sheath like pitch ; but 

2 H 




Seeing a Review. 



482 AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW, 

he went thro' all the cuts very correct with his umbrella. For my 
own part, candour compels to state I swished off my left-hand man's 
feather ; but tho' it might have been worse, and 1 apolo;:;ized as 
well as I could lor my horse fretting, he was foolish enough to huff at, 
and swear was done on purpose, and so galloped home, I suspect, to 
write me a calling-out challenge. Challenge or not, if I fight him 
with anythmg but fists, I'm not one of the Yeomanry. An accident's 
an accident, and much more pardonable than Hawksley opening his 
umbrella plump in the face of the Capt.in's blood charger ; and ten 
times more mortifying for an officer to be carried back willy-nilly to 
Ashford in the very middle of the Review. Luckily before Hawksley 
frightened any more he was called off to hold his umbrella over 
Mrs H.. as Mrs Morgan had taken in nine ladies, and couldn't 
accommodate more in her close carriage, without making it too 
close. 

After sword exercise we shot pistols, and I must say, very well and 
distinct ; only, old Dunn didn't tire ; but he's deaf as a post, and I 
wonder how he was called out. Talking of volleys, I am sorry to say 
we fired one before without word of command ; but it was all thro' 
Day on his shooting pony putting up a partridge, and in the heat of 
the moment letting fly, and as he is our fugelman, we all did the same. 
Lucky for the bird it was very strong on the wing, or the troop must 
have brought it down ; howsomever the Earl looked very grave, and 
sa'.d something that Day didn't choose to take from him, being a 
qualified man, and taking out a reglar license, so he went off to his 
own ground, where he might shoot without being called to account. 
Contrary to reason and expectation, there was very few horses shied 
at the firing; but we saw Bluff lying full length, and was afraid it was 
a bust ; but we found his horse, being a very quiet one, had run 
away from the noise. He was throwd on his back in the mud, but 
refused to leave the ground. Being a man of spirit, and military 
inclind, he got up behind Bates ; but Bates's horse objecting to such 
bark-gammon, rear'd and threw doublets. As his knees was broke, 
Bates and Bluff was forced to lead him away, and the troop lost iwo 
more men, ilio' for once against their own wills. 

As for Roper, he had bragged how he could stand fire, but seeing a 
great light over the village, he set off full swing to look after his ricks 
and barns. 

The next thing to be done was charging, and between you and me, 
I was most anxious about that, as many of us could only ride up to a 
CQx\.?i\x\ pitch. As you've often been throwd, \ou"ll know what 1 men. 
To tell the truth, when the word came, I seed some lay hold of their 
saddles, but Barnes had better have laid hold of anything else in the 
.vorld, for it turn'd round with him at the first start. Simpkin fell at 
the same time insensibly, but the doctor dismounted and was very 
hippy to attend him without making any charge whatever. All the 
rest went off gallantly, either galloping or cantering, tho' as they say 
at Canterbury races, there was some wonderful tailing on account of 
the difference of the n.gs. Grimsby's mare was llie last of the lot, and 
f<.r her backwardness in charging we calli-d her the Mare of Bristol, 
but he took the jest no better than Cobb did, and when we wheel'd to 



AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 



483 



the right, he was left. Between friends, I was not sorry when the 
word ciime lo pull up, — such crossing, and jostling, and foul riding ; 
but two farmers seemed to like it, for they never halted when the rest 
did, but g.iUoped on out of sight. I have since heard they had 
matched their two nags the day before to run two miles for a 
sovereign. I don't think 
a sovereign should di- 
vert a man from his 
king : but I can't write 
the result, as they never 
came back, — I suppose 
on account of the wet. 
The rains, to speak 
cavalry like, had got 
beyond bearing-reins ; 
and when we formed 
line again, it was like a 
laundress's clothes line, 
for there wasn't a dry 
shirt on it. One man 
on a lame horse rode 
particularly restive, and 
objected in such critical 
weather to a long re- 
view. He wouldn't be 
cholora morbus'd, he 
said, for Duke or Devil, 
but should put his horse 
up and go home by the 
blue stage ; by way of 
answer he was ordered 
to give up his arms and 
his jacket, which he did 
very offhand as it was 
wet thro'. Howsomever it was thought prudent to dispense with us 
till fine weather, so we was formed into a circle— 9 bobble square, and 
the Duke thanked us in a short speech for being so regular, and loyal, 
and soldier-like, after which every man that had kept his seat gave 
three cheers. 

On the whole the thing might have been very gratifying, but on 
reviewing the field-day, the asthmas and agues are uncommonly 
numerous, and to say nothing of the horses that are amiss with cofifs 
and colds— there are three dead and seven lame for life. The Earl 
has been very much blamed under the rose among the privates for 
fixing upon a hunting-day, which 1 forgot to say carried away a dozen 
that were mounted on their hunters. 1 am sorry to say there was so 
few left at the end of all, as to suffer themselves to be hissed into the 
town by the little boys and gals, and called the Horse Gomcrils ; and 
that consequently the corpse as a body is as good as defunct. Not 
that there were many resign'd at the end of the review, as his Lord- 
ship gave a grand dinner on the following d ly tc the troop : but 1 am 




An Objection to Crossii g the Line. 



484 



AN UNFAVOURABLE REVIEW. 



sorty to say, a great many was so unhandsome as to tlirow up the very 
day after The common excuse among them was something of not 
likuig to wet their swords a;^amst their countrymen. 

For my own p^'rt, ns the Yeomanry cannot go on, I shall stick to it 
honor.ibly, and as any man of spirit would do in my case ; but don't 
be air. lid' of my attending Market, come what will, and soiling the 
barley at the best quotation. — I am, dear Brother, Your's and the 
Colonel's to command, 

James Cherry. 

P.S. — I forgot to tell what will make you laugh. Barlow wouldn't 
ride with spurs, because he said they made his horse prick his ears. 

Our poor corps, small as 
LLL^- it is^ I understand is like 

to act in divisions. Some 
wish to be infantry in- 
stead of cav ahy ; and the 
farmers from the hop 
grounds want to be 
Polish Lancers. 

I hive just learned 
Ball.ird and nine more 
of the men was ordered 
to keep the ground ; but 
it seems they left before 
the troop came on it. 
They say m excuse, they 
stood in the rain till they 
were ready to drop ; and 
as we didn't come an 
hour after time, they 
thought everything was 
postponed. " None but 
the br.ive," they said, 
''deserve the fair;" and 
till it was fair, they 
wouldn't attend again. 

The mare you lent Bal- 
lard, I am sorry to say, 
got kicked in several 
places, and had her shoulder put out ; we was ndvised to i;ive her a 
su im in the sea, and I am still more sorry to say, in swimming her 
we drownded her. As for my own nag, I ;;m afraid he has got string- 
halt ; but one comfort is, I think it diverts him from kicking. 




Peace Officers. 



48s 




" She walks the waters like a tiling of life.' 



rU GOING TO BOMBAY* 

••Nothing venture, nothing have." — Old Proverb. 
"Every Indiaman has at least two m-xi^%.^' — F alcotier s Marine Guidt, 



My hair is brown, my eyes are blue, 

And reckon'd rather bright ; 

I'm shapely, if they tell me true, 

And just the proper hei,i;ht ; 

My skin has been admired in verse, 

And call'd as fair as day — 

If I a7n fair, so much the worse, 

I'm going to Bombay ! 

II. 

At school I pass'd with some ^cl4t ; 
I learn'd my French in France ; 
De Wint gave lessons how to draw, 
And D'Egville how to dance ; — 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



4M I'M GOINC TO BOMB A Y, 

Crevelli taught me how to sing, 
And Cramer how to play — 
It really is the strangest thing— 
I'm going to Bombay ! 

III. 
I've been to Bath and Cheltenham WellSj 
But not their springs to sip, — 
To Rams-^ate — not to pick up shells, — 
To Brighton — not to dip. 
I've tour'd the Lakes, and scour'd the coas 
From Scarboro' to Torquay — 
But though of time I've made the most, 
I'm going to Bombay ! 

IV. 
By Pa and Ma I'm daily told 
To marry now's my time, 
For though I'm very far from old- 
I'm rather in my prime. 
They say while we have any sun 
We ought to make our hay- 
But India has so hot an one, 
I'm going to Bombay I 

V. 

My cousin writes from Hyderapot 

My only chance to snatch, 

And says the climate is so hot, 

It's sure to light a match. 

She's married to a son of Mars, 

With very handsome pay, 

And swears I ought to thank my stsurt 

I'm going to Bombay ! . .; „, „,,.j, . 

VL 

She says that I siuill much delight 

To taste their Indian treats ; 

But what she likes may turn me quit^ 

Their strange outlandish meats. 

If I can eat rupees, who knows? 

Or dine, the Indi in way, 

On doolies and on bungalows— 

I'm going to Bombay ! 

VII. 

She says that I shall much enjoy,- — 
I don't know what she means, — 
To take the air and buy some toy, 
In my own palankeens, — 
I like to drive my pony-chair, 
Or ride our dapple grey — 



\S.qA!' u 



VM GOING TO BO MB A Y, 

But elephants are horses there — 
I'm going to Bombay ! 

VIII, 
Farewell, farewell, my parents dear 1 
My friends, farewell t<) them ! 
And oh, what costs a sadder tear, 
Good b\^e, to Mr M. ! — 
If I should find an Indian vault, 
Or fall a tiger's prey, 
Or steep in salt, it's all his fault 
I'm going to Bombay ! 

IX. 
"Hiat fine new teak-built ship, the Fox, 
A-l — Commander Bird, 
Now lying in the London Docks, 
Will sail on May the third ; 
Apply for passage or for freight 
To Nichol, Scott, & Gray — 
Pa has applied and seal'd my fate— r 
I'm going to Bombay ! 

X. 

My heart is full — my trunks as well ; 

My mind and caps made up, 

My corsets, shaped by Mrs Bell, 

Are promised ere I sup ; 

With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best 

And dresses by Duc^, 

And a special license in my chest — 

I'm going to Bombay ! 



487 




I /\ 



Ufio:) inrlT 



' The Court of an Indian Prince.'* 



4S8 




ODE 

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.* 

"Sweeping our flocks and herds." — Douglas, 

PHILANTHROPIC men ! — 

For this address I need not make apology — 
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, 
And planting further off its vile Zoology — 
Permit me thus to tell, 

1 like your efforts well, 

For rousting that great nest of Homithology ! 

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first, 
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, 
Charge on ! — you shall upon their hornworks burst, 
And carry all their Bu//-wcirks and their Jiam-paris, 

Go on, ye wholesale drovers ! 
And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds I 

As wild as Tartar-Curds, 
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers, 

• Comic Annual, 1830. 



ODE. 



4S9 



Off with them all 1— those restive briitPS-. that vex 

Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle ; 

And save the female sex 

From being covv'd — like lo— by the cattle I 

Fancv, — when droves appear on 
The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top, — 
Your ladies, ready, as they own, to drop. 
Taking themselves to Thomsons with a Fear-on! 



\ «U '•• 




I see Cattle I 



Or, in St Martin's Lane, 
Scared by a bulk ck, in a frisky vein — 
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters, 

While rushing souse 

Into a coffee-house. 
To find it — ^^Slaughter's ,' 

Or fancy this : — 
Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, 
Her head with no such thought of danger liden^ 
When suddenly 'tis " Aries Taurus Virgo !" — 
You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, 
Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden ! 



4go ODE. 

Think of some poor old crone 
Treated, just like a penny, with a toss, 

At that vile spot now grown 

So generally known 
For making a Cow Cross ! 

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, y 

Or shed, or shop — and that an ox infuriate 

Just pins you to the wall, ■ ' 

Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate I 

Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round 

The Market-ground 
Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows : — 
" 'Tis well for you that live apart — unable 

To hear this brutal B.ibel, 
But Qwx firesides are troubled with their bellows% 

Folks that too freely sup 

Must e'en put up 
With their own troubles, if they can't digest j 

But we must needs regard 

The case as hard 
That others' victuals should disturb our rest, 
That from our sleep _ytf«r food should start and jump us I 

We like, ourselves, a steak. 

But, Sirs, for pity's sake. 
We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-usl 
If we do doze — it really is too bad ! . , 

We constantly are roar'd awake or rung, 

Through bullocks mad 
That run in all the ' Night Thoughts * of our Young I* 

Such are the woes of sleepers — now let's take 

The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake ! 

Oh, think ! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, 

Think of these " Bulls of Bashan," far from mild ones ' 

Such fierce tame beasts, 
That nobody much cares to see the wild ones ! 

Think of the Show-woman, " what shows a dwarf," ' 
Seeing a red cow come , 

To swallow her Tom Thumb, 

And forced with broom of birch to keep her oflf 1 

Think, too, of Messrs Richardson & Co., 
When looking at their public private boxes. 

To see in the back row 
Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an ox's ! 
Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come 
I'hrough, to accompany the double drum 1 



ODE. 

Or, in the midst of murder nnd remorses, 
Just when the Ghost is certain, 
A great rent in the curtain, 

And enter two tall skeletons— of horses ! 

Great Philantliropics ! pray urge these topics 
Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation; 
Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon. 
The bulls, a Bull of Excommunication ! 



491 




A Bull of Excommunication. 



Let the old Fair have fairplay as its right, 

And to each show and sight 
Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude ; 

To Ricliardson's Stage Dramas, 

Dio — and Cosmo— ramas, 

Giants and Indians wild, 

Divarf, Sea-bear, and Fat Child, 
And that most rare of Shows— a Show of Gratitude ! 



49« 




" Artna Virumque Canoe." 



DRA WN FOR A SOLDIER* 

I WAS once — for a few hours only — in the militia. I suspect I was 
in ijart answerable for my own mishap. There is a story in Joe 
Miller of a man who, being pressed to serve his Majesty on another 
element, pleaded his polite breeding, to the gang, as a good ground of 
exemption ; but was told that the crew being a set of sad unmnnnerly 
dogs, a Chesterfield was the very character they wanted. The militia- 
men acted, 1 presume, on the same principle. Their customary 
schedule was forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fill up, and in a moment 
of incautious hilarity — induced, perhaps, by the absence of all business 
or employment, except pleasure — I wrote myself down in the descrip- 
tive column as " Quite a Gentlewan." 

The consequence followed immediately. A precept, addressed by 
the IIi.i;h Constable of Westminster to the Low ditto of the pari-.h of 
St M*****, and endorsed with my name, informed me tliat it had 
turned un in that involuntary lottery, the Ballot. 

At sight of the Orderly, who thought prouer to deliver the document 
into no other hands than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife 
fainted on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions in mili- 
tarv service — a soldier was a soldier — and they imagined th..t, on the 
very morrow, I miL',ht be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They 
wi re unfortunately ignorant of that benevolent provision which ab- 
solved the militia from going out of the kingdom — "except in case of 
an invasion." In vain I represented that we were " locals ; " — they had 
heard of local diseases, nnd thought there might be wounds of the 
same description. In vain I exL.lained that we were not troops of the 
line ; — they could see nothing to choose between being shot in a line, 
or in any other figure. I told them, next, that I wns not obliged to 
"serve myself;" — but they answered, " 't^'- as so much the harder I 
* Comic Anuiial, 1830. 



DRA WN FOR A SOLDIER. 493 

should be obliged to serve any one else." My being sent abrond, they 
snid, would be the death of them ; lor they had witnessed, at R.ims- 
gate, tlie embarkation of the Walcheren Expedition, and too well 
remembered " the misery of the soldiers' wives at seemg their husbands 
in t7-ansports ! " 

I told them that, nt the very worst, if I s/iouldhe sent abroad, there 
was no reason why I should not return again ; but they both declared, 
t ley never did, and never would believe in those " Returns of the 
Killed and Wounded." 

The discussion was in this stage when it was interrupted by another 
loud single knock at the door, — a report equal in its effects on us to 
that of the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels ; and before we could 
recover ourselves, a strapping Serjeant entered the parlour with a huge 
bow, or rather rainbow, of party-coloured ribbons in his cap. l^e 
came, he said, to offer a substitute for me ; but I was prevented from 
reply by the indignant fent-ales asking him in the same bre.uh, 
" Wiio and what did he think could be a substitute for a son and a 
husband?" 

The poor Serjeant looked foolish enough at this turn ; but he was 
still more abashed when the two anxious ladies began to cross- 
ex imine him on the length of his services abroad, and the number of 
his wounds — the campaigns of the militiaman having been conhned 
doubtless to Hounslow, and his bodily marks-miliiant to the three 
stripes on his sleeve, IParrying these awkward questions, he endea- 
voured to prevail upon me to see the proposed proxy, a fine young 
fellow, he assured me, of unusual stature ; but I told him it was quite 
an indifl'ei ent point with me whether he was six-feet-two or two-feet-six, 
ill siiort, whether he was as tall as the flag, or "under the standard." 

The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of profound peace, that a 
civil war or an invasion was very unlikely ; and as tor an occasional 
drill, that I could make shift, like Lavater, to rit;ht-about-face. 

Accordinjily I declined seeing the substitute, and dismissed the 
Serjeant with a note to the War Secretary to this purport : — " That I 
considered myself drawn, and expected therefore to be well quartered. 
That, under the circumstances of the country, it would probablv be 
unnecessary for militia-men 'to be mustarded ;' but that if his Majesty 
did 'call me out,' 1 hoped I should '■give him s lis faction.' " 

The females were far from being pleased with this billet. They 
talked a great deal of moral suicide, wilful murder, and seeking the 
bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth ; but I shall ever think that 
I took the propf-r course, for, after the lapse of a few hours, two more 
of the General's red-coats, or general postmen, brought me a large 
packet sealed with the War Office seal, and superscribed "Henry 
Hardini^e," by which I was officially absolved from serving on horse 
or on foot, or on both together, then and tiiereafter. 

And why, I know not — unless his Majesty doubted the handsome- 
ness of discharging me in particular, without letting oft" the rest ; — but 
so it was, that in a short time afterwards there issued a proclamation, 
b- which the se>-vices of all militiamen were for the present dispensed 
with, — and we «.'ere left to pursue our several avocations, — of course, 
all the lightot m our spirits ior being disembodied. 



494 




Sharp, Fl.ct, and Natural. 



ODE FOR ST CE CILIA'S EVE* 

" Look out for squalls." — The Pilot. 

O COME, dear Barney Isaacs, come ! 
Punch for one night can spare his drum, 

As well as pipes of Pan ! 
Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon, 
Nor, Master Bray, your horn, as soon 

As you can leave the van : 
Bhnd r>illy, bring your violin ; 
Miss Crow, you're great in " Cherry Ripe !" 
And Chubb, your viol must drop in 
Its bass to Soger Tommy's pi|)e. 

Ye butchers, bring your bones : 
An organ would not be amiss ; 
If grinding Jim has spouted his, 

Lend your's, good Mister Jones. 
Do, hurdygurdy Jenny, do 
Keep sober for. an hour or two, 
Music's charms to help to paint. 
And Sandy Gray, if you should not 
Your bagpipes bring— O tuneful Scot ! 
Conceive the feeling of the Saint ! 

Miss Strummel issues an invite 
For music and turn-out to night 
In honour of Cecilia's session ; 
But ere you go, one moment stop, 
And with all kindness let me drop 
A hint to you, and your profession. 
Imprimis then : Pray keep within 
The bounds to which your skill was born ; 
Let the one-handed let alone trombone, 
* Comic Annual, 1831. 



ODE FOR ST CECILIA 'S EFE, 49$ 

Don't — Rheumntiz ! seize the violin^ 

Or Ashmy snatch the horn ! 

Don't ever to such rows yive birth, 

As if you had no end on earth, 

Except to " wake the lyre ; " 

Don't " strike the hari)," — pray never do, 

Till others long to strike it too — 

Perpetual harping's apt to tire. 

Oh, I have heard such flat-and-sharpers, 

I've blest the head 

Of good King Ned, 
For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers I 

Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing, 
Take a prodigious deal of wooing ; 
And then sit down to thrum the strain 
As if you'd never rise again — 
The least Cecilia-like of things ; 
Remember that the Saint has wings. 
I've known Miss Strummel pause an hour 
Ere she could " Pluck the Fairest Flower," 
Yet, without hesitation, she 
Plunged next into the " Deep, Deep Sea ;* 
And when on the keys she does begin, 
Such awful torments soon you share, 
She really seems like Milton's " Sin," 
Holding the keys of — you know where 1 

Never tweak people's ears so toughly, 

That urchin-like they can't help saying— 

*' O dear ! O dear— you call this playing, 

But oh, it's playing very roughly 1" 

Oft, in the ecstasy of pain, 

I've cursed all instrumental workmen, 

Wish'd Broadwood Thurteil'd in a lane, 

And Kirke White's fate to every Kirliman* 

I really once, delighted, spied 

** Clementi CoUard " in Cheapside. 

Another word, — don't be surprised, 

Revered and ragged street Musicians,— 

You have been only half-baptized, 

And each name, proper or improper, 

Is nut the value of a copper 

Till it has had the due additions, 

Husky, Rusky, 

Ninny, Tinny, 

Hummel, Bummel, 

Bowski, Wowski. 
All these are very good selectables ; 
But none of your plain pudding- and-taines— 



196 ODE FOR ST CECILIA 'S EVE. 

Folks that are call'd the hardest names 
Are Music's most res[)ectal:>les. 
Every woman, every man, 
Look as foreign as you can ; 
Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin- 
Make ugly faces and begin. 




Fancy Portrait : — Kirke White- 



Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears, 
And now to show they uriderstand it I 
Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears, 
And all the rest prepare to band it ; 
Each scraper, ripe for concertante, 
Rosins the hair of Ruzinante : 
Then all sound A, if they know which, 
That they may join like bn-ds in June • 
Jack Tar alone neglects to tune, 
For he's ail over concert-pitch. 

A little prelude goes before. 

Like a knock and ring at Music's door^^ 

Each instrument gives in its name j 

Then sitting in, 

They all begin 
To play a musical round game. 
Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand, 
Leads a iirst liddlc to ihc band, 

A secund follows suit ; 
Anon the ace of horns comes plump 
On the two fiddles with a trump , 
Puffiadorf plays a flute. 



ODE FOR ST CECILIA 'S EVS, ,, 0f 

This sort of musical revoke 
The grave bassoon begins to smoke^ 
And in rather grumpy kind 
Of tone begins to speak its mind ; 
The double drum is next to mix, 
Playing the " Devil on Two Sticks "-^ 
Clamour, clamour, 
Hammer, hammer ; 
While now and then a pipe is heard. 
Insisting to put in a word, 

With all his shrilly best ; 
So, to allow the little minion 
Time to deliver his opinion, 

They take a few bars' rest. 

Well, little Pipe begins — with sole 
And small voice going thro' the Jtoltf 

Beseeching, 

Preaching, 

Squealing, 

Appealing, 
Now as high as he can go, 
Now in language rather low, 
And having done, begins once more 
Verbatim »??hat he said before. 
This twiddling twaddling sets on fire 
AH tl:«! lid instrumental ire. 
And £:<'( lies for explosion ripe 
Put out the little squeaker's pipe ; 
This waikes bass viol — and viol for that, 
Seizing on innocent little B flat, 
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat — 
They all seem miching malico ! 
To judge from a rumble unawares. 
The drum has had a pitch downstairs { 
And the trumpet rash, 
By a violent crash, 
Seems splitting somebody's calico I 
The viol too groans in deep distress. 
As if he suddenly grew sick ; 
And one rapid fiddle sets off express^ 

Hurrying, 

Scurrying, 

Spattering, 

Clattermg, 
To fetch him a Doctor of Music. 
This tumult sets the hautboy crying 
Eeyond the piano's pacifying ; 

The cymbal 

Gets nimble, 

31 



49S ODE FOR ST CECILIA 'S EVE. 

Triangle 
Must wrangle ; 
The band is becoming most martial of bands, 
When just in the middle, 
A quakerly fiddle 
Proposes a general shaking of hands ! 
Quaking, 
Shaking, 
Quivering, 
Shivering, 
Long bow — short bow — each bow drawing ; 
Some like filing, — some like sawing. 
At last these agitations cease, 
And they all get 
The flageolet, 
To breathe " A Piping Time of Peace." 
Ah, too deceitful charm. 
Like lightening before death, 
For Scrapenberg to rest his arm, 
And Puffindorf get breath ! 




A Grand Upright. 



Agairi, without remorse or pity, 

They play "The Storming of a City," — 

Miss S, herself composed and plann'd it; 

When lo ! at this renew'd attack, 

Up jumps a little man in black, — 

*' The very Devil cannot stand it ! " 



REELECTIONS ON WATER, 499 

And with that, 
Snatching hat 
(Not his own), 
Ofif is flown, 
Thro' the door, 
In his black, 
To come back, 
Never, never, never more f 

O Music ! praises thou hast had 

From Dryden and from Pope 
For thy good notes, yet none, I hop^ 

But I, e'er praised the bad ; 
Yet are not saint and sinner even — 
Miss Strummel on Cecilia's level ? 
One drew an angel down from heavenj 
The other scared away the Devil ! 



REFLECTIONS ON WATER.* 

"When the butt is out, we will drink water : not a drop before." — Temfest, 

I HAVE Stephano's aversion to water. I never take any by chance 
into my mnuth, without the proneness of our Tritons and Dolphins 
of the Fount;! in, — to spout it forth again. It is, on the palate, :is in tubs 
and hand-basins, e;-;regiously washy. It hath not for me even what 
is called " an amiable weakness." For the sake only of quantity, not 
quality, do I sometimes adulterate my Cognac or Geneva with the 
flimsy fluid. Aquarius is not my sign ; at the praises heaped on Sir 
Hugh Myddleton, for It-ading his trite streamlet up to London, my 
lip curleth. Methinks if such a sloppy labour could at one time more 
than another betray a misguided taste, it was in those days, when we 
are told, "The Crete Conduict, in Chepe, did runne forth Wyne." 
And then to hear talk withal of the New River Head, — as if, forsooth, 
the weak current poured even from Ware unto London were capable 
of that goodly-headed capitril, the caput of Stout Porter or lusty Ale. 

The taste for aquatics is none of mine. I laugh at Cowes' — it 
should be Calves' — Regattas ; >.t passeth my understanding to con- 
ceive the pleasure of coniendi^ng with all >our sail and sea, your might 
and main, for a prize cup of water. Gentle re id(.r, if ever we two should 
encounter at good men's feasts, say not before me, that " your mouth 
waters," for fear of my compelled rejoinder, '' The more pump you I " 

I am told — Die mild — by Sir Lauder Dick, that the great floods in 
Morayshire destroyed I know not how many Scottish bridges — and' I 
believe it. The element was al\va\s our Arch-Enemy. Witness the 
Deluge, when the whole humankind would have perished, with water 
on the chest, but for Noali's chest on the water. Drowning — by some 
• Comic Annual, 1831. 



5«> 



REFLECTIONS ON WATER. 



called Dying made Easy — is to my notions horrible. Conceive an unfor- 
tunate gentleman — not by any means thirsty — compelled lo swili gulp 
after gulp of the vapid fluid, even to swelling, "as the water you know 
will swell a man." If I said I would rather be hanged, it would be but 
the truth ; although " Veriias in Piitco" hath given me almost a dis- 
relish lor truth itself. 



iJyfl- 



Excepting their imagi- 
nary Castaly, I should 
be glad to know what 
poet hath sung ever in 
the praise of water .'' Of 
wine, many. " Tak 
Tent" said the Scottish 
Burns : " Oh, was ye at 
the Shej'ryf'^ — singeth 
another. The lofty 

Douglas, in commending 
Norval, thus hinteth his 
cellar; " W'x^Port I like.'' 
Shakespeare discourseth 
eloquently of both as 
" Red and white," and 
addeth — " with sweet ;ind 
cunning hand laid on;" 
i.e., laid on in pipes. For 
Madeira, see Bowles of 
it ; and the Muse of 
Pringle luxuriates in the 
C.ipe. Then is there also 
Mountain celebrated by 
Pope, — " The shepherd 
loves the Mountain," — to 
Moslem, forbidden draught ; yet which Mahomet would condescend 
to fetch himself, if it failed in coming to hand. Sack, too,— as dear to 
Oriental Sultanas as his Malmsey to Clarence, — is by Byron touched 
on in his "Corsair;" but then, through some Koran-scrupulousness 
perchance, they take it — in water ! 

Praise there hath been of water ; but, as became the subject, in 
prose ; M. hath written a volume, I am told, in its commendation, 
and above all, of its nutritive quality ; and truly to see it floating the 
Victory, with all her armament and complement of guns and men. one 
must confess there is some support iw it— •at least as an outward appli- 
cation ! but then, taken internally, look at the wreck of the Royal 
George ! 

The mention of men-of-war bringeth to mind, opportunely, certain 
marine reminiscences pertinent to this subject, referring some years 
backward, when, with other uniform than my present invariable sables, 
1 was stationed at * * '*, on the coast of Sussex. Little as my 
present-tense habits and occupations savour of the past sea-service, 
— yet, reader, in the Navy List, amongst the Commanders of years 
bygone, in the ship's books of H.M.S- Hyperion, presently lying in 




The Arch- Enemy. 



REFLECTIONS ON WATER. 



501 



the sequestered harbour of Newhaven, thou wilt find occurring the 
surname of Hood ; a name associated by friends, marine and me- 
chanic, with a contrivance for expelling the old enemy, w^ter, by a 
novel construction of shi])s' pumps. 

Stanchest of my sect — the Adam's-Ale-Shunners— wert thou, old 
Samuel Spiller ! in the musier-roU characterised an Able Seaman, but 
mo-t notable for a landsman's aversion to unmitigated vvatei", h rd 
or soft— fresh or salt ! A petty ofliccr wert thou in that armed band 




Running Spirits. 

versus contraband, the Coast Blockade, by some miscalled the Pre- 
ventive Service, if service it be to prevent the influx of wholesome 
spirits. To do the smuiigler bare justice, no seaman, Nelson-bred, 
payeth greater reverence or obedience to that signal sentence, — ■ 
"England expects every man to do his duty!'' than he. Thine, 
Spiller, was done to the uttermost. Spirits, leg^l or illegal, in tub or 
flask or pewter measure, didst thou inexorably seize, and gauger-like 
try the depth thereof, — thy Ro'yal Master, His Majesty, at the latter 
end of the seizures, faring no better than thy own-begotten sea- 
urchin, of whom, one day, remarking th..t— "he took after his father," 
the voung would-be Trinculo reiorted, " Father never leaveth none to 
take."' There were strange rumours afloat and ashore. Samuel ! 
of thy unprofitable vi-ilance. Many an illicit Chi/d—z.e , a small 
kg— hath been laid at thy door. Thou hadst a becoming resrect 
for thy comradrs, as brave men and true, who could stand fir,e i 



56a A BLOW UP. 

but the smugglers, I fear, were ranked n streak higher — as men who 
could stand treat. Still were thy misdeeds like much of thy own 
beverage — beyond proof. Even as those delinquent utterers of 
base notes, who swallow their own dangerous forgeries, so didst 
thou gulp down whatever mi:4ht else have appeared against thee in 
evidence. There was no entrapping thee, like rat or weazel, in that 
Gin from which, deriving a sea-peera^^e, thou wert commonly known 
— with no offence, I trust, to the nobie vassal of Kensington — as 
Lord Hollands. 

It was by way of water-penance for one of these Cassio-like derelic- 
tions of mine Ancient, that one evening; — the eveninij succeeding the 
great sea-temuest of 1814 — I give him charge of a boat's crew, to 
bring in sundry fragmental relics of some shipwiecked argosy that 
were reported to be adrift in our offing. In two hours he returned, 
and. like Venator and Piscator, we immediately fell into dialogue, — 
Piscator, i.e., Spiller, " for fear of dripping the carpet," standing aloof, 
a vox et preterca nihil, in a dark entry 

"Well, Spiller," — my phrascologv was not then inoculated with 
the quaintness it hath since imbibed from after-lecture — " Well, 
Spiller, what have you picked up ?" 

"A jib-boom, I think, Sir; a capital spar; and part of a ship's 
Biarn— the ' Planter of Barbadi'.s,'-rfamous place for rum, Sir !" 

" W.is there any sea — are you wet ?" 

" Only up to my middle, Sir." 

" Very well — stow away the wreck, and go to your grog. Tell Bunce 
■"S) give you all double allowance." 

"Thank your Honour's Honour I" 

The voice ceased, and a p..ir of ponderous sea-soles, with tramp 
audible as the marble foot of the Spectre in Giovanni, went hurrying 
down our main-hatchway. Certain misgivings of a discrepancy between 
the imputed drenching and the we.ither, an appeal askance of the rum 
cask, joined with a curiosity, perchance, to ins, ect the ship-fr.igments 
— our flotsam and jctsain— led me soon afterwards below, and there, 
in the messroom, sate mine officer, high and dry, with a huqe tankard 
in his starboard hand. I made an obvious remark on it, and had an 
answer — for Michael Spiller was no adept in the Chesterfieldian refine- 
ments — from the interior of the drinking vessel — 

"Your Honour's right, and I ax your Honour's pardon. I warn't 
wet ! but I was very dry 1 " 



A BLOW-UP* 

** Here we go, np, up, up." — The Lay 0/ the First MinstrtL 

Near Battle, Mr Peter Baker 
Was powder-maker ; 
Not Alderman Flower's flour, — the white that puffs 
And primes and loads heads bald, or grey, or chowder, 

* Comic Annual, 1831. 



A BLOW-UP. 503 

Figgins and Higgins, Fipnins, Filby,— Crowderj 
Not vile apothecary's pounded stuffs, 
But something blacker, bloodier, and louder- 
Gunpowder ! 

This stuff, as people know, is seviper 
Eadem ; very hasty in its temper — 
Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps, 
Mere semblnnces of blows, however slight ; 
So powder fires, although you only p'rhaps 

Strike light. 
To make it, tht-refore, is a ticklish business, 
And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizziness,— 
For all us human flash and fancy minders. 
Frequenting fights and powder-works, well know 
There seldom is a mill without a blow, 
Sometimes upon the grinders. 
But then — the melancholy phrase to soften — 
Mr B.'s mill transpired so very often ! 
And advertised — than all Price Currents louder-— 
*' Fragments look up — there is a rise in powder," 
So frequently, it caused the neighbours' wonder,— 
And certain people had the inhumanity 
To lay it all to Mr Baker's vanity, 
That he might have to say — " That was my thunder !* 

One day — so goes the tale — 

Whether, with iron hoof, 

Not sparkle-proof. 
Some ninny-hammer struck upon a nail, — 
Whether some glow-worm of the Guy Faux stamp, 
Crept in the building with Unsafety Lamp — 
One day this mill, that had by water ground, 
Became a sort of windmill, and blew round, 
With Ijounce that went in sound as far as Dover — it 
Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky, 
Besides some visitors, who gain'd thereby, 
Wh:it they had ask'd — permission " to go over it !* 
Of course it was a very hard and high blow, 
And somewhat differ'd from what 's call'd a flyblow. 
At Cowes' Rej^atta, as I once observed, 
A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start ; 
If such a sound could terrify oak's heart, 
Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved. 
In fact, it was a very awful thing, — 
As people know that have been used to battle. 
In springing either mine or mill, you spring 

A precious rattle ! 
The dunniest heard it — poor old Mr F. 
Doubted for once if he was ever deaf; 
Through Tunbridge town it caused most strange alarms,— 



5Q4 A BLOW- UP. 

Mr and Mrs Fogg, 

Who lived like cat and dog, 
Were shock'd for once into each other's arms. 
Miss M. the milliner — her fright so strong — 
Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long ; 
The veriest quakers quaked against their wish ; 
The " Best of Sons" was taken unawares, 
And kick'd the " Best of Parents " down the stairs { 
The steadiest servant dropp'd the china dish ; 
A thousand started, though there was but one 
Fated to win, and that was Mister Dunn, 
Who struck convulsively, and hook'd a fish ! 

Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork, 
Toss'd it just like a haymaker at work ; 
Her sister not in any better case, 

For, taking wine 

With nervous Mr Pyne, 
He jerk'd his glass of sherry in her face. 

Poor Mis Davy 
Bobb'd off her brand-new turban in the gravy ; 
While Mr Davy, at the lower end 
Preparing for a goose a carver's labour, 
Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbour. 
As if for once he meant to help a friend. 

The nurse-maid, telling little " Jack-a-Norey," 
" Bo-peep " and " Blue-Cap" at the house's top, 
Scream'd, and let Master Jeremiah drop 

From a fourth storey ! 
Nor yet did matters any better go 
With cook and housemaid in the realms below ; 
As for the laundress, timid Martha Gunning, 
Expressing faintness and her fear by fits 
And starts, — she came at last but to her wits 
By falling in the ale that John left running. 

Grave Mr Miles, the meekest of mankind. 
Struck all at once deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind. 
Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse, 

Then coming to his mind. 

Was shock'd to find 
Only a pair of shafts without a horse. 

Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy's ! 
From Prospect House, for urchins small and big^ 

Hearing the awful noise, 

Out rush'd a flood of boys. 
Floating a man in black, without a wig ; — 
Some carried out one treasure, some another, — 
Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry, — 
Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lmuley Murray," 
But little Tiddy carried his big brother ! 



A BLOW- UP. 

Sick of such terrors, 
'Phe Tunbndge folks resolved thjit truth should dwell 
No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well, 
But to warn Baker of his d.mgerous errors , 
Accordingly, to bring the point to pass, 
They call'd a meeting of the broken gliss, 
The shatter'd chimney-pots, and scatter'd tiles, 

The damage of each part, 

And pack'd it in a cart, 
Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr Miles ; 
While Doctor Babblethurpe, the worthy Rector, 



505 




A non sequitur. 

And Mr Gammage, cutler to George Rex, 
And some ft-w more, whose names would only vex, 
Went as a deputation to the Ex- 
Powder-proprietor and Mill-director. 



Now Mr Baker's dwelling-house had pleased 

Along with mill-matenals 10 roam. 

And for a time the deputies were teased 

To find the noisy gentleman at home ; 

At last they found him, with undamaged skin, 

Safe at the Tunbridge Arms — not out — but Inn. 



506 A BLOW-UP. 

The worthy Rector, with uncommon zea!, 
Soon put his spoke in for the common weal— 
A grave old gentlemanly kind ot Urban, — 
The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded. 

And then unfolded, 
By way of climax, Mrs Davy's turban ; 
He told how auctioneering Mr Fielding 

Knock'd down a lot without a bidding, — 
How Mr Miles, in fright, had given his mare 

The whip she wouldn't bear, — 
At Pmspect House, how Doctor Gates, not Titus, 

Danced like Saint "Vitus, — 
And Mr Beak, through powder's misbehaving, 

Cut oft' his nose v/hilst shaving ; — 
"When suddenly, with words that seem'd like swearing, 
Beyond a Licenser's belief or bearing — 
Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr Gammage — 
'•Who is to pay us, sir" — he argued thus, 
" For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus — 
Cus-custom, and the d.im-dam-dam-dam-damage ?" 

Now many a person had been fairly puzzled 
By such assailants, and comnletely muzzled ; 
Baker, however, was not dash'd with case, 
But proved he practised after their own system, 
And with small ceremony soon dismiss'd 'em, 
Putting these words into their ears like fleas : 
" If I do have a blow, well, where's the oddity ? 
I merely do as other tradesmen do. 

You, sir, — and you — and you ! 
I'm only puffing off my own commodity ! " 




Urging the Sail of your own Work, 



507 



THE WOODEN LEG* 

"Peregrine and Gauntlet heard the sound of the stump af^cendine the wooden staircase 
Urith such velocity, that they at first mistook it for the application of drum-sticks to tlie head 
of an cinpiy banel." — Peregrine Pickle, 

EVER since the year 1799, I have had, in coachman phrase, an 
off leg and a near one ; the right limb, thanks to a twelve- 
pounder, lies somewhere at Seringap.itam, its twin-brother being at 
this moment under a table at Brighton. In plain English, I have a 
wooden leg. Being thus deprived of half of the implements for march- 
ing, I equitably retired, on half-pay, from a marching re,L;iment, and 
embarked what remained of my body for the land of its nativity, 
literally fulfilling the description of man, " with one foot on sea and 
one on shore," in the Shakesperean song. 

A great deal has been said and sung of our wooden walls and 
hearts of oak, but legs of ditto make but an inglorious figure on the 
ocean. No wrestler from Cornwall or Devonshire ever received half 
so many fair back-falls as I, — the least roll of the vessel — and the 
equinoctial gales were in full blow — making me lose, I was going 
to say, my feet. 1 miuht have walked in a dead calm ; and as a 
soldier accustomed to exercise, and, moreover, a foot-soldier, and 
used to walking, I felt a great inclination to pace up and down the 
deck, but a general protest from the cabins put an end to my pro- 
menade. As Lear recommends, my wooden hoof ought to have been 
"shod with felt." 

At last the voyage tenninated, and in my eagerness to land, I got 
into a fishing-boat, which put me ashore at Dungeness. Those who 
have enjoyea a ramble over its extensive shingle, will believe that I 
soon obtained abundance of exercise in walking with a wooden leg 
among its loose pebbles ; in fact, when I arrived at Lydd, I was, as 
tlie cricketers say, " stumped out." It was anything but one of 
Foote's farces. 

The next morning saw me in sight of home,^as a provincial bard 
says — 

" But when home gleams upon the wanderer's eye, 
Quicken Lis steps— he almost seems to fly." 

But I wish he had seen me doing my last half mile over Swingfield 
Hill. I found its deep sand anything but a quicksand, in spite" of a 
distinct glimpse of the paternal roof. 1 am convinced, when *' fleet 
Camilla scours the plains," she does not do it with sand. At last I 
stood at the lodge-gate, which opened, and let me into a long avenue, 
the path of which had been newly gravelled, but not well rolled ; 
accordingly, I cut out considerable woxv. for myself and the gardener, 
who, as he watched the holes I picked in his performance, seemed to 
look on my advance much as Apollyon did on Pilgrim's Progress. 
By way of relief, 1 got upon the grass, but my wooden leg, though it 
Was a blat k-leg, did not thrive much upon the turf. Arrived at the 
• Comic Annual, 1S33, 



5o8 THE WOODEN LEG. 

house door, filial nnxiety caused me to forijet to scrape and wioe, and 
I proceeded to make a fishy pattern of soles and dabs up the stair 
carpet. The good wife in the Scotch song says — 

" His very foot has music in't, 
As he comes up the stair." 

If there was any music in mint-, it was in the stump, which played a 
sort of " Dead March in Saul," up to the hinding-place, where the 
sound and sight of my Hirnam wood coming to Dunsinane threw my 
poor mother mto a Macbeth fit of horror, tor the prajDaratory letter 
which should have broken my leg to her, had been lost on its passage. 
As for my father, I will not atteinpt to describe his transport, for I 
came upon him, 

" As fools rush in where angels fear to tread ; " 

and Gabriel or Michael would not have escaped a volley for treading 
on his gouty foot. At the same moment, Margaret and Louisa, with 
sisterly impetuosity, threw themselves on my neck, and not being 
attentive to my "outplay or loose leg," according to Sir Thomas 
Pnrkyn's "Instructions for Wrestling," the result was a "hanging 
tiipiet." " A hanging trippet is when you put your toe behind your 
adversary's heel, on the same side, with a design to hook his leg up 
forwards, and throw him on his back." 

The reader will guess my satisf .rtion when night came, and allowed 

me to rid myself of my unlucky 
liml:). Fatigued with my walk 
through dry sand and wet gravel, 
exhausted by excessive emotion, and, 
maybe, a little flustered by dipping 
into the tup of uelcome, I literally 
tumbled into bed, and was soon 
dreaming of running r ces and le.ip- 
ing for wagers, gallopading. waltzing, 
and other feats of a biped, when I 
was suddenly aroused by shrill 
bcre.ims of " Thieves ! " and " Mur- 
der ! ' with a more hoarse call for 
" Frank ! Frank ! " There were 
burglars, in f ict, in the house, who 
vv^re packing and preparing to elope 
With the f..mily plate, without the 
consent of parents. It was natural 
for the latter to call a son and a sol- 
dier to the rescue, but son or soldier 
never came in time to start for the 
plate ; not that I wanted zeal or 
courage or arms, but I wanted that 
unlucky limb, and I groped about a full half hour in the dark, before 
I could lay my hand upon my leg. 

The next morning I took a solitary stroll before breakfast to look 
at the estate ; but during my absence abroad, some exchanges of land 




" P^ggi'ig Two for liis Heels.' 



THE GHOST. 509 

had taken place with b'tir neighbour, Sir Theophilus. The consequence 
was, in taking my wood through a wood of his, — but which had 
formerly been our own, — and going with my "best leg foremost," as 
a man in my predicament always does, I popped it into a man-trap. 
Tlius my timber failed me at a pinch, when it might really have stood 
my friend. Luckily the trap was one of the humane sort; — but it was 
far from pleasant to stand in i<t for two hours calling out for Leg Bail. 
I could give many more instances of scrapi-S, besides the perpetun] 
hobble which my wooden leg brought me into, but I will mention only 
one. At the persuasion of my friends, a few years ago I stood for 
Rye, but the electors, perhaps, thought I only half stood for it, for 
they gave me nothing but split votes. It was perhaps as well that I 
did not go into the House, for with two such odd legs I could never 
properly have "paired off." The election expenses, however, pressed 
heavily on my pocket, and to defray them, and all for one Wooden 
Leg, I had to cut down some thousand loads of timber. 



THE GHOST. 

A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD.* 
Til be your second." — Liston. 

In Middle Row, some years ago, 

There lived one Mr Brown ; 
And many iolks consider'd him 

The stoutest man in town. 

But Brown an<i stout will both wear out, 

One Friday he died hard, 
And left a widow'd wife to mourn, 

At twenty pence a yard. 

Now Widow B. in two short months 
Thought mourning quite a tax, 

And wish'd, like Mr Wilberforce, 
To manumit her blacks. 

With Mr Street she soon was sweet ; 

The thing thus came about : 
She ask'd him in at home, and then 

At church he ask'd her out ! 

Assurance such as this the man 

In ashes could not stand ; 
£0 like a Phcenix he rose up 

Against the Hand in Hand. 

* Comic Annual, 1833. 



Sio 



THE GHOST. 

One dreary night the angry sprite 
Appear'd before her view ; 

It came a little after one, 
But she was after two ! 

" O Mrs B. ! O Mrs B. ! 

Are these your sorrow's deeds, 
Already getting up a flame 

To burn your widow's weeds ? 

" It's not so long since I have left 
For aye the mortal scene ; 

My Memory — like Rogers's, 
Should still be bound in green ! 

"Yet if my face you still retrace 
I almost have a doubt — 

I'm like an old * Forget-Me-Not/ 
With all the leaves torn out ! 




Cock of the Walk. 

"To think that on that finger-joint 
Another pledge should cling ; 

O Hess ! upon my very soul. 

It struck like ' Knock and Ring.' 

"A ton of marble on my breast 

Can't hinder my return ; 
Your conduct, Ma'am, has set my blood 

A-boiling in my urn ! 

" Remember, oh ! remember, how 
Tlie marriage rite did run,— 

If ever we one flesh should be, 
'Tis now — when I have none ! 



ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 

"And you, sir — once a bosom friend — 

Of perjured faith convict, 
As ghostly toe can give no blow, 

Consider you are kick'd. 

"A hollow voice is all I have, 

But this I tell you plain, 
Marry come up ! — you marry, Ma'am, 

And 111 come up again." 

More he had said, but chanticleer 
The spritely shade did shock 

With sudden crow, and off he went, 
Like fowling-piece at cock ! 



5" 



ODE TO MADAME HENGLER, 

FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL.* 

O Mrs Hengler ! — Madame, — I beg pardon- 
Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden ! 




Fancy Portrait : — Madame Hengler. 

Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff — ■ 
The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz, 
Whose squibs are far more popular than his, 
Whose works are much more certain to go off. 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



<fa ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 

Great is thy fnme, but not a silent fame ; 
With many a bang the public ear it courts; 
And yet thy arrogance we never blame, 
But take thy merits from thy own reports. 
Tl.ou iiast indeed the most indulgent backers, 
We make no doubting, misbelieving comments, 
Even in thy most bounceable of moments, 
But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers ! 
Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing, 
Thy Rockets raise thee, 
And Serpents praise thee. 
As none beside are ever pmised — by hissing I 
Mistress of Hydropyrics, 
Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, 
Professor oi a Fiery Necromancy, 
Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts 

With midnight sports, 
Partaking very much oi flash ^nd fancy t 

What thoughts had shaken all 
In olden time at thy nocturnal revels, — 

Each brimstone ball 
They would have deem'd an eyeball of the Devil's I 
But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright ; 
A modern Hubert to the royal ear 
Might whisper without fear, 
'* My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night !* 
Nor would it raise one superstitious notion 
To hear the whole description fairly out : — 
*'One fix'd — which t'other four whiiTd round about 
With wondrous motion." 

Such are the very sights 
Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven, 
Between the hours of midnight and eleven, 
Turning our En:4lish to Arabian Nights, 
With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragon^ 

Blue stars and white, 

And blood-red liglit. 
And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters' waggons. 
Thrice lucky woman ! doing things that be 
With ocner folks past benefit of pnrson ; 
Yor burnin.r, no Burn's Justice f.ills on thee, 
Although night after night the public see 
Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson I 

Sure thou wast never born 
Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head. 

Nor lectured night and morn 
Of sparks .aid flames to have an awful drea.d. 
Allowed by a prophetic dam and site 

To play with fire. 



ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 513 

Oh, didst thou never, in those days gone by. 
Go carrying about — no schoolboy prouder — 
Instead of waxen doll a little Guy ; 
Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein, 
Up the parental pigtail lay a train. 

To let off all his powder ? • 

Full of the wildfire of thy youth, 

Did'st never, in plain truth, 
Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother's pots, 
Turning the garden into Powder Plots ? 

Or give the cook, to fright her, 
Thy paper sausages well stuff'd with nitre ? 
Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping 
A lighted cracker by thy sister's Dear, 

So that she could not hear 

The question he was popping ? 

Go on, Madame ! Go on — be bright and busy, 
While hoax'd Astronomers look up and stare 
From tall Observatories, dumb and dizzy, 
To see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair 1 
A Serpent wriggliny into Charles's Wain i 
A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear 1 
A Rocket tangled in Diana's train. 
And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair! 

There is a King of Fire — Thou shouldst be Queen! 
Methinks a good connexion might come from it ; 
Could'st thou not make him, in the garden scene, 
Set out per Rocket and return per Comet ; 

Then give him a hot treat 
Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup, 
Lord ! how the world would throng to see him eal^ 
He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up I 

One solitary night — true is the story — 
Watching those forms that Fancy will create 
Within the bright confusion of the grate, 
I saw a dazzling countenance of glory 1 

O Dei gratias ! 

That titry facias 
Twas thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove | 

And ever since that night. 

In dark and bright, 
Thy face is registered within my stove I 

Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays, 
May no untimely i/oiv its doom forestall ; 
But when old age prepares the friendly pall, 
When the last spark of all thy sparks decays, 
Then die lamented by good people all, 

Like Goldsmith's Madatn Blaizc I 

2 K 



5»4 



RHYME AND REASON* 

To the Ediior of the Comic Animal. 

SIR, — In one of your Annuals you have given insertion to " A Plan 
for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme : " but as I have seen no 
regular long poem constructed on its principles, I suppose the scheme 
did not take with the literary world. Under these circumstances I 
feel encouraged to bring forward a novelty of my own. and I can only 
regret that such poets as Chaucer and Cottle, Spenser and Hayley, 
Milton and Pratt, Pope and Pye, liyron and Batterbee, should have 
died before it was invented. 

The great difficulty in verse is avowedly the rhyme. Dean Swift 
says somewhere in his letters, " that a rhyme is as hard to find with 
hmi as a guinea," — and we all know that guineas are proverbially 
scarce among poets. The merest versifier that ever attempted a V.il- 
entine must have met with this Orson, some untameable savage syllable 
that refused to chime in with society. For instance, what poetical 
Fox-hunter — a contributor to the Sporting Magazine — has net dr.iwn 
all the covers of Beynard, Ceynard, Deynard, Fiynard, Geynard, Hey- 
nard, Keynard, Leynard, Meynard, Neyn.ird, Pcynard, Queynard, to 
find a rhyme for Reynard .'' The spirit of the times is decidedly against 




Refusing I ithe. 

Tithe ; and I know of no tithe more oppressive than that poetir.il one, 
in heioic measure, which requires that every tenth syllable shall pay 
a sound in kind. How often the Poet goes up a line, only to be st( ppcd 

* Comic Annual, 1833. 



THE DOUBLE iCW^^C/. 515 

at the end by an impracticable rhyme, like ? ^jvl'. in a bli<id alley ! I 
have an ingenious medical friend, who in'ght Uive been an eminent 
poet by this time, but th ■ tirst line n^ v,iote enr'.ei in ipecacuanha, and, 
with all his physical and mental power, he has never yet been able to 
find a rhyme for it. 

The plan I propose aims to ol:viate this hardship. Mv system is, 
to take the bull by the horns ; in short, to try at first what words will 
chime, before you j^o farther and fare worse. To say nothing of other 
advantages, it will at least have one good ; ffect, — and that is, to cor- 
rect the erroneous notion of the would-be-poets and poetesses of the 
present day, that the great end of poetry is rhyme. I beg leave to 
present a specimen of verse, which proves quite the reverse, and am, 
Sir, Your most obedient servant, JOHN Dryden Grubb. 



THE DOUBLE K^'OCK. 

Rat-tat it v.ent upon the lion's chin ; 
"That hat, I know it !" cried the joyful girl; 
** Summer's it is, I know him by his knock ; 
Comers like him are welcome as the day ! 
Lizzy ! go down and open the street-door ; 
Busy I am to any one but hi>n. 
Know him you must — he has been often here ; 
Show him upstairs, and tell him I'm alone." 

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair; 
Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat ; 
"Sure he has brought me tickets for the play — 
Drury — or Covent Garden — darling man ! 
Kemble will play — or Kean, who makes the soul 
Tremble in Richard or the frenzied Moor — 
Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce 
Barren beside — or Liston, Laughters Child — 
Kelly the natural, to witness whom 
Jelly is nothing to the public's jam — 
Cooper, the sensible— and Walter Knowles 
Super, in Willi im 'J'ell, now rightly told. 
Better — perchance, from Andrews, brings a box, 
Letter of boxes for the Italian stage — 
Brocard ! Donzelli ! Taglioni ! Paul ! 
No card, — thank heaven — engages me to night ! 
Feathers, of course — no turban, and no toque- 
Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls. 
Dearly I dote on white — my satin dress, 
Merely one night — it won't be much the worse- 
Cupid — the New Ballet I long to see — 
Stupid ! why don't she go and ope the door !* 

Glistcn'd her eye as the impatient girl 
Li;tcn'd, low bending o'er the topmost stair. 



5i6 A FOX-HUNTER. 

Vainly, alas ! she listens and she bends, 
Pl.iinly she hears this question and reply 
"Axes your pardon, sir, but what d'ye want?" 
" Taxes," says he, " and shall not call again ! " 



A FOX-II UNTE R* 

IS a jumble of paradoxes. He sets forth clean though he comes out 
of a kennel, and returns home dirty. He cares not for cards, yet 
strives to be always with the pack. He loves fencing, but without 
carte or tierce ; and delights in a steeplechase, though he does not 
follow the church. He is anything but litigious, yet is fond of a 
certain suit, and retains Scarlet. He keeps a running account with 




Baiker's P.inorama. 

Horse, Dog, Fox, and Co., but oljjects to a (berk. As to cards, in 
choosing a pack he prefers Hunt's. In Theatricals, he favours Miss 
Somerville, because her namesake wrote the Chase, though he never 
read it. He is no great Dancer, though lie is fond of casting of! 
twenty couple ; and no great Painter, thougn he draws covers, and 
seeks for a inrush. He is no Musician, and \ et is fond of live bars. 
He despises Doctors, yet folio vs a course of bark. He professes to 
* Comic Annual, 18^3, 



A FOX-HUNTER. 



517 



love his country, but is perpetually crossing it. He is fond of strong 
ale and beer, yet dislikes any purl. He is good-tempered, yet so far 
a T;irtar as to prefer a saddle of Horse to a saddle of Mutton. He is 
somewhat rough and bearish himself, but insists on good breeding in 
horses and dogs. He professes the Church Catechism, and counte 
nances heathen dogmas, by naming his hounds after Jupiter and Juno, 
Mars and Diana. He cares not for violets, but he doats on a good 
scent. He says his Wife is a shrew, but objects to destroying a Vixen. 
In Politics he inclines to Pitt, and runs after Fox. He is no milksop, 
Init he loves to tally. He protects Poultry, and preserves Foxes. He 
follows but one business, and yet has many pursuits. He pretends to 
be knowing, but a dog leads him by the nose. He is as honest a 
fellow as need be, yet his neck is oftener in danger than a thief's. He 
swears he can clear anything, but is beaten by a fog. He is no land- 
lord of houses, but is particular about fixtures. He studies " Summer- 
ing the Hunter,"' but goes Huntering in the Winter. He esteems 
himself prosperous, and is always going to the dogs. He delights in 
the Hunter's Stakes, but takes care not to stake his hunter. He 
praises discretion, but would rather let the cat out of the bag than a 
fox. He does not shine at a human conversazione, but is great among 
dogs giving toni^ue. To conclude, he runs as lon;^ as he can, and then 
goes to earth, and his Heir is in at his death. But his Heir does not 
stand in his shoes, for he never wore anything but boots. 




" Stand a. d Deliver." 



SrS 




Fancy Portrait : — " I'd be a Butterfly.' 



BAILEY BALLADS* 

TO anticinate mistake, the above title refers not to Thomas Haynes 
— or F. W. N. — or even to any publishers — but the original Old 
Bailey. It belongs to a set of songs comuosed during the courtly 
leisure of what is technically called a Juryman in Waiting — that is, one 
of a corps de reserve, held in readiness to till up the gaps which extra- 
ordinary mental exertion — or sedentary habits — or starvation, may 
make in the Council of Twelve. This wrong box it was once my fortune 
to get into. On the 5 th of November, at the 6th hour, leaving my bed 
and the luxurious perusal of Taylor on Early Rising — I walked from a 
yellow fog into a black one, in my unwilling way to the New Court, 
which sweet herbs even could not sweeten, for the sole purpose of 
making criminals uncomfortable. A neighbour, a retired sea-captain 
vvuh a wooden leg, now literally a jury-mast, limped with me Irom 
Highbury Terrace on the same hanging errand — a personified Halter. 
Our legal drill corporal was Serjeant Arabin, and when our muster-roll 
without butter was over, before breakfast, the uninitiated can form no 
idea of the ludicrousness of the excuses of the would-be Nonjurors, — 
aggravated by the solemnity of a previous oath, the delivery from a 
witness-box like a pulpit, and the proiessional gravity of the Court. 
One v.eakly old gentleman had been ordered by his physician to eat 
little, but often, and apprehended even fatal consequences from being 
lo(:^ed up with an obstinate eleven ; another conscientious demurrer 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



BAILEY BAKL/tDS, 



519 



desired time to make himself r/iaster of his duties, by consulting 
Jonathan Wild, Vidocq, Hardy Vaux, and Lazarillo de Tormes. But 
the number of deaf men who objected the hardness of their hearing 
criminal cases was beyond belief. The puljlishers of " Curtis on the 
Ear" and "Wriq^ht on the Ear" — (two popular surgical works, though 
rather suggestive of Pugilism) — ought to have stentorian agents in that 
Court. l3ei€Ctive on one side myself, I was literally ashamed to 
strike up singly in such a chorus of muffled double drums, and tacitly 
suffered my ears to be boxed with a common Jury. I heard, on the 
right hand, a Judge's charge — an arraignment and evidence to match, 
with great dexterity, but failing to catch the defence from the left 
hand, refused naturally to concur in any sinister verdict. The learned 
Serjeant, I presume, as I was only half deaf, only half discharged 
me, — comnniiing me to the relay-laox, as a Juror in Waiting, — and 
from which I was relieved only by his successor. Sir Thomas Denman, 
and to justify my dulness, I made even his stupendous voice to repeat 
my dismissal twice over ! 

It was during this compelled attendance that the project struck me 
of a Series of Lays of Larceny, combining Sin and Sentmient in the 
melodramatic mixture which is so congenial to the cholera-morbid 
sensibility of the present age and stage. The following are merelv 
specimens, but a hmt from the Powers that be, — in the Strand,— will 
promptly produce a handsome volume of the remainder, with a grate- 
ful Dedication to the learned Scrjtiuit. 




'• Descend, ye JS'me 1 " 



5M BAILEY BALLADS, 

No. I. 

LINES TO MARY. 

(at no. I NEWGATE, FAVOURED BY MR WONTNEt.) 

Mary, I believed you true, 
And I was blest in so believing ; 
But till this hour I never knew — 
That you were taken up for thieving I 

Oh 1 when I snatch'd a tender kiss, 
Or some such trifle when I courted, 
You said, indeed, that love was bliss, 
But never own'd you were transported! 

But then, to gaze on that fair face, 
It would have been an unfair feeling 
To dream that you had pilfer'd lace — 
And Flints had suffer'd from your stealing 1 

Or, when my suit I first preferr'd, 

To bring your coldness to repentance, 

Before I hammer'd out a word, 

How could I dream you'd heard a sentence ! 

Or when, with all the warmth of youth, 

1 strove to prove my love no fiction. 
How could I guess I urged a truth 
On one already past conviction ? 

How could I dream that ivory part, 

Your hand — where I have look'd and linger'dj 

Although it stole away my heart, 

Had been held up as one light-finger'd ? 

In melting verse your charms I drew, 
The charms in which my muse delighted— 
Alas ! the lay, I thought was new, 
Spoke only what had been indicted I 

Oh ! when that form, a lovely one. 
Hung on the neck its arms had flown to^ 
I little thought that you had run 
A chance of hanging on your own too. 

You said you pick'd me from the world— 
My vanity it now must shock it — 
And down at once my pride is hurl'd, — 
You've pick'd me — and you've pick'd a pocket I 



BAILEY BALLADS. 

Oh ! when our love had got so far, 
The banns were read by Dr Daly, 
Who asked if there was any bar — 
Why did not some one shout. " Old Bailey?'* 

But when you robed your flesh and bones 
In that pure white that angel garb is, 
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones, 
Among the Joans tliat link with Darbies ? 

And when the parson came to say 

My goods were yours, if I had got any, 

And you should honour and obey, 

Who could have thought — " O Bay of Botany 1' 

But, oh I the worst of all your slips 
I did not till this diy discover — 
That down in Deptfcrd's prison-ships, 
O Mary ! you've a hulking lover I 



521 




"'Twere well if we had never met" 



No. II. 

"Love, with a witness I " 

He has shaved off his whiskers and blacken'd his brows, 
Wears a patch and a wig of false hair, — 
But it's him — oh, it's him ! — we exchanged lovers' vows 
When I lived up in Cavendish Square. 

He had beautiful eyes, and his lips were the same, 
And his voice was as soft as a flute — 
Like a Loi'd or a Marquis he look'd, when he came 
To make love in his master's best suit. 



\2i BATLEY BALLADS. 

If I lived for a thousand loirr vears from my birth, 
I shall never forget what he told — 
How he loved me beyond ihe rich women of earth, 
With their jewels and silver and gold ! 

When he kiss'd me, and bnde me adieu with a sigh, 
By the light of the sweetest of moons ; 
Oh, how little I dreamt I was bidding good-bye 
To my Missis's teapot and spoons ! 



No. III. 

"I'd be a Parody." — Bailey. 

We met — 'twas in a mob — and I thought he had done me : 
1 felt — 1 could not feel — for no watch was upon me ; 
He rnn — the night was cold — ^and his pace was unalter'd, 
1 too long'd much to pelt — but my small-boned leg falter'd. 
I wore my brand-new boots — and unrivall'd their brightness ; 
They fit me to a hair — how I hated their tightness ! 
I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether — 
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather ! 

And once again we met — and an old pal was near him ; 

He swore, a something low — but 'twas no use to fear him ; 

I seized upon his arm — he was mine and mine only, 

And stepped — as he deserved — to cells wretched and lonely : 

And there he will be tried — but I shall ne'er receive her, 

The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver. 

The world may think me giy, — heart and feet ache together— 

Oh, thou h:ist been the cause of this anguish, my leather. 




Slop him I 



523 




The Source of the Niger. 



LETTER 

FROM A PARISH CLERK IN BARRADOES TO ONE IN HAMPSHIRE, 
WITH AN ENCLOSURE.* 

"Thou mayest conceive, O reader, with what concern I perceived the eyes of the cob 
gregation fi.xed upon me." — Memoirs of F. P. 

MY DKAR JEDIDIAH,— Here I am safe and sound— well in 
body, and in fine voice for my calling — though thousands and 
thousands of miles, I may say, from the old living, Threap-cum- 
Toddle. Little did I think to be ever giving out the Psalms acmss the 
Atlantic, or to be walking in the streets of Barbadoes, surrounded by 
Blackamoors, big and little : some crying after me, " There him go- 
look at Massa Amen !" Poor African wretches ! I do hope, by mv 
Lord Bishop's assistance, to instruct many of them, and to teach them 
to h.ive more respect for ecclesiastic di.;nitaries. 

Through a ludicrous clerical mischance, not fit for me to mention, 
we have preached but once since our arrival. O Jedidiah ! how 
different from tiie row of comrly, sK-ek, and ruddy, plain English faces 
that used to confront me in the Churchwarden's pew, at the old service 
in Hants, — Mr Perryman's clean, shining, bald head. Mr Truman's 
* Comic Annual, 1831, 



524 



A LETTER. 



respectable powdered, and Mr Cutlet's comely and well-combed caxonl 
Here, such a set of grinning sooty faces, that if I had been in any 
oth-.r place, I might have fancied myself at a meeting of Master 
Chimney-sweeps on May-Day. You know, Jedidiah, how strange 
thoughts and things will haunt the mind, in spite of one's self, at times 
the least appropriate : — the line that follows " The rose is red, the 
violet's blue," in the old Valentine, I am ashamed to say, came across 
me I know not how often. Then, after service, no sitting on a tomb- 
stone for a cheerful bit of chat with a neij^hbour — no invitation to 

dinner from the worshipful 
I III III I Hill i'<lllllSBillH!l'flll!lliiiltrilllllll!i'Si^ilffl^ Churchwardens. Thejab- 
il IriW^^^^ ^^^"^^ these Niggers is so 

p"l lll[lllMlLl| |j{| ^|^ | || p | g ^ outlandish or unintelli- 

" ^ gible, I can h.nrdly say I 

gi am on speaking terms with 
any of our parishioners 
except Mr Pompey, the 
Governor's black, whose 
trips to England have made 
his English not quite so 
full of Greek as the others. 
There is one thing, how- 
ever, that is so great a dis- 
appointment of my hopes 
and enjoyments, that I 
think, if I had foreseen it, 
I should not have come 
out, even at the Bishop's 
requ st. The song in the 
pl.iybook says, you know, 
"While all Barbndoes bcl'« 
do ring !" — but alas ! Jedi- 
diah, there is not a ring of bells in the whole island! You, who re- 
member my fondness for that melodious pastime, indeed I mav say my 
passion, for a Grandsire Peel of Triple Bob-M.ijors truly pulled, and 
the changes called by myself, as when I belonged to the Great Tom 
Society of Hampshire Youths, — may conceive my regret that, instead 
of coming here, I did not go out to Swan River — I am told they have 
a Peel there. 

I shall write a longer letter by the Nestor, Bird, which is the next 
ship. This comes by the Lively, Kidd. — only to inform you that I 
arrived here safe and well. Pray communicate the same, with my love 
and duty, to my dear parents and relations, not forgetting Deborah 
and Darius at Porkin^jton, and Uriah at Pigstead. The same to Mrs 
Pugh, the opener, — Mr Sexton, and the rest of my clerical friends. I 
have no commissions at present, except to beg that you will delivet the 
enclosed, which I have written at NIr Pompey's dictation, to his old 
black fellow-servant, at- Number 45 Portland Place. Ask for Aga- 
memnon down the area. If an opportunity should likewise offer of 
mentioning in any quarter that might reach Administration, the desti- 
tute state of our Barbarian steeples and belfries, pray don't ofait; and 




Black Barberism. 



A LETTER. 



525 



if, in the meantime, you could send out even a set of small handbells, 
it might prove a parochial acquisition, as well as to me. — Dear Jedi- 
diah, Your faithful friend and fellow-clerk, Habakkuk Crumpe. 



P.S. — I send Pompey's letter openj for you to read, 
what a strange herd of black cattle I am among. 



You will see 



[the enclosure.] 



I sav, As 



—You remember me ? Very well. Runaway Pompey, 
somebody else. Me Governor's Pompey. You remember.? Me 
carry out Governor's piccaninny a walk. Very well. Massa Amen 
and me write this to say the news. Barbadoes all bustle. Nigger- 
mans do-nothing but talkee talkee. \_Poinpey''s ricrJit, Jedidiah.^ The 
Bishop is come. Missis Bishop. Miss Bishop — all the Bishops. 
The Bishop come in one ship, and hnn wigs come out in 
Bishop come one, two, three, weeks first, [//'j- too true^ 
Him say no wig, no Bishop. Massa Amen, you remem- 
ber, say so too. Very well. Massa Amen ask me everything about 
nigger-man, where him baptizes in a water. [So I did. '\ Me tell him 
in the sea, in the river, any wheres abouts. You remember. Massa 



Very well, 
other ship. 
Jedidiah.^ 




By gum, him tuibiu afire.' 



Amen ask at me again, who 'ficiales. Me tell him de Cavman. 
\\\'hat man, Jedidiah, could he mean f] Very well. The day before 
the other day Bishop come to dinner with Governor and Governess, 
iijj at the Big House. You remember, - Missis Bishop too. Missis 
Bishop set him turban afire at a candle, and nie put him out. [IF/iA 



526 OUR VILLAr.F. 

a kettle of scalding water, Jedidiah^ pjrr.pcy gif njt1,><^ /, .hai, 
Very well. 

I say, Aggy ! — You know your Catechisir, ? Massa Amen ask him 
at me and my wife, Black Juno, sometimes. Vou remember. Massa 
Amen say, You give up a Devil? verv well. 1 hen him say, Y<iu give 
up al" work? very well. Then hin; say again, Black Juno, you t;ive 

up your Pompeys and 
vanities? Black Juno 
shake her head, and say 
no. Massa Amen s ly 
You must, and then my 
wife cry ever so much. 
[Ifs a fact, Jedidiah, the 
black female made this 
ridiculous mistake. ] 

Very well. Governor 
come to you in three 
months to see the King. 
Pompey too. You re- 
member. Come for me 
to Blackwall. Me bring 
Ship Letters. you some of Governor's 

rum. Black Juno say, 
Tell Massa Agamemnon, he must send some fashions, sometimes. 
You lemember? Black Juno very smart. Him wish for a Bell As- 
sembly. \Jedidiah, so do /.] You send him out, you remember? 
Very well. 

i\lass I Amen say write no more now, I say, O pray one little word 
more for Agamemnon's wife. Give him good kiss from Pompey. 
[ Jedidiah^ what a heathenish message .'] Black Diana a kiss too. 
You remember? Very well. No more. 




OUR VILLAGE* 



"Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain." — Goldsmith. 

I HAVE a great anxiety to become a topographer, and I do not 
know that I can make an easier commencement of the character, 
th in by attempting a description of our village. It will be found, as 
mv friend the landlord over the way says, that "things are drawn 
mild:' 

I live opposite the Grren Man. I know that to be the sign, in spite 
of the picture, because I am told of the fact in large '^'ilt Utters, in 
three several places. The whole-length portrait of '''■ Thomme vert* 
is rather imposing. He stands plump before you, in a sort of wrest- 
ling attitudf, the legs standing distinctly apart, in a brace of decided 
boots, with dun tops, joined to a pair of creoie-coloured h ather breeches. 

* Comic Annual, 1833. 



OUR VILLAGE. 



527 



The rest of his dress is peculiar ; the coat, a two-flapoer, green and 
brown, or, as they sav at the tap, half-ami half ; a cocked hat on the 
half-cock ; a short belt crossing the breast like a flat gas-pipe. The 
one hand stuck on the greeny-brown hip of my friend, in the other a 
gun with a barrel like an entire butt, and the butt like a brewer's 
whole stock. On one side, looking up at the vanished visage of his 
master, is all that remains of a liver-and-\\hite pointer — seeming now 
to be some old dog from India, for his white complexion is turned 
yellow, and his livtr is more than half gone ! 

The inn is really a very quiet, coz\ , comfortable inn, though the 
landlord announces a fact in larger letters, methinks, than his inlorma- 
tion warrants, viz., that he is " Licensed io deal in Foreign Wines and 
Spirits" All innkeepers, I trust, iire so licensed ; there is no occasion 
to-«iake so brazen a brag of this sinecure permit. 



I had written thus far, when the tarnished gold letters of the Green 
Man seemed to be suddenly re-gilt ; and on looking upwards, 1 per- 
ceived that a sort of skylight had been opened in the clouds, 'jivmg 
entrance to a bright gleam of sunshine, which glowed with remarkable 
effect on a yellow postchaise in the stable-yard, and brought the ducks 
out beautifully white from the black horsepond. Tempted liy the 
appearance of the weather, I put down my pen, and strolled out for a 




The Lady of "Our Village." 

quarter of an hour before dinner, to inhale that air, without which, like 
the chameleon, I cannot feed. On my return, I found, with some sur- 
prise, that my papers «ere a good deal discomposed ; but before I 
had tune for nuich wonder, my landlady entered with one of her most 



52S OUR VILLAGE. 

obliging curtseys, and observed that she had seen me writinf^ in the 
morning, and it had occurred to her, by chance, that I might by pos- 
sibihty have been writing a description of the village. I told her that 
I had actually been engaged on that very subject. *' If that is the 
case, of course, sir, you would begin, no doubt, about the Green Man, 
being so close by ; and I daresay you would say something ;ibout 
the sign., and the Green Man with his top-boots, and his gun, and his 
Indian liver-and-white pointer, though his white to be sure is turned 
yellow, and his liver is more than half gone." " You are perfectly right, 
Mrs Ledger," I replied, '' and in one part of the description I think I 
have used almost your own very words." " Well, that is curious, sir," 
exclaimed Mrs L., and physically, not arithmetically, casting up all 
her hands and eyes. " Moreover, what I mean to say is this ; and I 
only say that to save trouble. There's a young man lodges at the 
greengrocer's over the way, who has writ an account of the village 
already to your hand. Tiie people about the place call him the Poet, 
but, anyhow, he studies a good deal, and' writes beautiful ; and, as I 
said before, has made the whole village out of his own head. Now, 
it might save trouble, sir, if you was to write it out, and I am sure I 
have a copy, that, as far as the loan goes, is at your service, sir." 
My curiosity induced me to take the offer; and as the poem really 
forest, died what I had to say of the Hamlet, I took my landlady's 
advice and transcribed it, — and here it is. 



OUR VILLAGE.— BY A VILLAGER. 

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village 

of Bullock Smithy, 
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and 

a withy ; 
And in the middle there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and 

a half ; 
It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three 

horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a cdlt ! 
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common- 
law lease, 
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, 

four drown'd kittens, and twelve geese. 
Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling 

when the little villa.;e-boys pliy at cricket ; 
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and 

stand ri^ht before the wicket. . 

There's fifty-tive private houses, let alone barns, and workshops, and 

pig-sties, and poultry huts, and suchlike sheds ; 
With plenty of public-houses — two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch 

of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. 
The Green Man is reckon'd the best, as the only one that for love or 

money can raise 
A posiiHon, a blue-jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, -jad a 

ramshackled " neat postch.iise." 



OUR VILLAGE. 5*9 

There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their 

ranks in life or- their degrees, 
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist 

Chapel of Ease ; 
And close by the churchyard there's a stone-mason's yard, that when 

the time is seasonable 
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very 

low and reasonable. 
There's a cage, comfortable enough ; I've been in it with Old Jack 

Jeffrey and Tom Pike ; 
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything 

else you like. 
1 can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright 

post ; 
But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is 

always there almost. 
There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, 

Old Joe IJradley, 
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses 

very badly. 
There's a shop of all sorts, that sells everything, kept by the widow 

of Mr Task ; 
But when you go there, it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask. 
You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old 

sugary cask : 
There are six empty houses, and not so well paper'd inside as out, 
For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and election 

placards all about. 
That's the Doctor's w ith a green door, where the garden pots in the 

windows are seen — 
A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a 

tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. 
As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, 

you may go and whistle ; 
But the tailor's iront garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth 

of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a tiiistle. 
There are three small orchards — Mr Busby's the schoolmaster's is the 

chief — 
With two pear-trees that don't bear ; one plum and an apple, that 

every year is stripped by a thief. 
There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs 

Gaby, 
A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little 

girls and a baby ; 
There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that 

never smokes, 
For the rector don't live on his livinc^ like other Christian sort of folks ; 
There's a barber's, once a-week well filled with rough black-bearded 

shock-headed churls, 
And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine 

ladies m false curls ; 

a L 



530 THE SCRAPE-BOOK. 

There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small 

greengrocer's, and a baker, 
Blot he won't bake on a Sunday ; and there's a sexton that's a coal- 
merchant besides, and an undertaker ; 
And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with 

the London shops ; 
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and 

the other sells malt and hops. 
And Mrs Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her 

betters. 
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, 

lives in it herself, and it's ihe post-office for letters. 
Now I've gone through all the village — ay, from end to end, save and 

except one more house, 
But I haven't come to that — and I hope I never shall — and that's the 

Village Poorhouse I 



THE SCRAPE-BOOK.^ 

"Luck's all 1* 

SOME men seem born to be lucky. Happier than kings, Fortune's 
wheel has for them no revolutions. Whatever they touch turns to 
gold, — their path is paved with the philosopher's stone. At games of 
chance they have no chance ; but what is belter, a certainty. They 
hold four suits of trumps. They get windfalls, without a breath 
stirring — as legacies. Prizes turn up for them in lotteries. On the 
turf, their horse — an outsider — always wins. They enjoy a whole 
season of benefits. At the very worse, in trying to drown themselves, 
they dive on some treasure undiscovered since the Spanish Armada ; 
or tie their halter to a hook, that unseals a hoard in the ceiling. That's 
their luck. 

There is another kind of fortune, called ill-luck ; so ill, that you 
hope it will die ; — but it don't. That's my luck. 

Other people keep scrap-books ; but 1, a scrape-book. It is their? 
to insert bon-mots, riddles, anecdotes, caricatures, facetiae of all kinds ; 
mine to record mischances, failures, accidents, disappointments ; in 
short, as the betters say, I have always a bad book. Witness a few 
extracts, bitter as extract of bark. 

April 1st. Married on this day : in the first week of the honeymoon, 
stumbled over my faiher-in-law's beehives ! He has 252 bees ; thanks 
to me, he is now able to check them. Some of the insects, having an 
account against me, preferred to settle on my calf. Others swarmed on 
my hands. My bald head seemed a perfect humming-top ! Two 
hundred and fitty-iwo stings — it should be " stings — and arrows of 
outrai;eous fortune!" But that's my luck. Rushed bee-blind into 
the horsepond, and torn out by Tiger, the house-dog. Staggered 
incontinent into the pigsty, and collared by the sow — sus. per coll — 
for kicking her sucklings ; recommended oil for my wounds, and none 

* Comic Annual, 1S3K 



THE SCRAPE-BOOK. 531 

but lamp ditto in the house ; relieved of the stings at last — what luck ! 
—by 252 oper.itions. 
9th. Give my adored Belinda a black eye, in the open street, aiming 




An Unfortunate Bee-ing. 

at a lad who nttempted to snatch her reticule. Belinda's part taken 
by a big rascal, as deaf as a post, who wanted to fight nie " tor striking 
a woman." iVIy luck again. 

I2th. Purch.ised a mare, warranted so gentle that a lady nii'-;ht 
ride her, and, indeed, no animal could be quieter, except the leather 
one, formerly in the Show-rouin, at Exeter Change. Meant lor the 
fnst time to ride with Belinda to the P. irk — put my foot in the 
stirrup, and found myself on my own back instead of the mare's. 
Other men are thrown l:)y their horses, but a saddle does it for me. 
Well, nothing is so hard as my luck — unless it be the fourth flag or 
stone from the post at the north corner of Harley Street. 

14th. Run down in a wherry by a coal-brig off Greenwich, but 
pro\ ideiitially picked up by a steamer, that burst her boiler directly 
a terwards. Saved to be scalded ! But misfortunes with me never 
came sin:4le, from my very childhood. I remember when my litde 
bri thers and sisters tumbled downstairs, they always hitched half way 
at the angle. My luck invariably turned the corner. It could not 
bear to bate me a single bump. 

17th. Had my eye picked out by a pavior who was axing; his way, 
he didn't care where. Sent home in a hackney chariot tnat upset. 
Paid Jarvis a sovereign for a shilling. My luck all over! 



532 



THE SCRAPE-BOOK. 



1st of May. My flue on fire. Not a sweep to be had for love or 

money ! Lucky enough /t^r w^, the parish eni^ine soon arrived, with 
all the charity school. Boys are fond of playing — and indul;.;ed their 
propensity by playing into my best drawing-room. Every friend I 
had dropped in to dinner. Nothing but Lacedemonian black broth. 
Others have pot-luck, but I have not even pint-luck — at least of the 
right sort. 

8th. Found, on getting up, that the kitchen-garden had been 
stripped by thieves, but had the luck at night to catch some one in 
the garden, by walking into my own trap. Afraid to call out, for 
fear of being shot at by the gardener, who.would have hit me to a dead 
certainty — tor fauch is my luck ! 

loth Agricultural distress is a treat to mine. My old friend Bill 
— 1 must lienreforth call him Corn-Bill — h is, this morning, laid his 
unfeeling wooden kg on my tenderest toe, like a thresher. In spite 




A Cornish Man. 

of Dibdin, I don't believe that oak has any heart, or it would not be 
such r walking treadmill ! 

I2lh. Two pieces af " my usual." First knocked down by a mad 
bull; secotidh, picked up by a pickpocket. Anyliody but me would 
have found one honest humane man out of a whole crowd ; but I am 
born to suffer, whether done by accident or done by design. Luckily 
for me and the pickpocket. I was able to identify him, bound over to 
arosecute, and had the satisfaction of exporting him to Botany Bay. 



A TRUE STORY, JJj 

I suppose I performed well in a court of justice, for the next day — 
*' Encore ti7i coup !" — I had a summons to serve with a Middlesex 
jury, at the Old Bailey, for a fortnight. 

14th. My number in the lottery has come up a capital prize. Luck 
at last — if i had not lost the ticket. 



A TRUE STORY* 

Whoe'er has seen upon the human face 
The sellow jaundice and the jaundice black, 
M ly form a notion of old Colonel Case 
With nigger Pompey waiting at his back. 

Case, — as the case is, many time with folks 
From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay, — 
Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say, 
And show'd two cheeks as yellow as eggs' yolks, 
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block, 
In hue was like his master's stiff cravat. 
And might indeed have claim'd akin to thatf 
Coming, as he did, of an old black stock. 

Case wore the liver's livery that such 
Must wear, their past excesses to denote, 
Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much, 
And then do penance in a yellow coat. 
Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet-dye, 
A stain of Nature's staining — one of those 
We zzXXfast colours — merely, I suppose, 
Because such colours never ^^ or Jly, 

\ 
Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, 
Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yelloi 

The Colonel, once a penniless beginner, 
From a long Indian rubber rose a winner, 
With plenty of pagodas in his pocket, 
And homewiird turning his Hibernian thought, 
Deem'd Wicklow was the place that ought 
To harbour one whose wick was in the socket. 

Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet, 
Wicklow just then was in a pretty not, 
A f.ict recorded m each day's diurnnls. 
Things Case was not accustom'd to peruse, 

Careless of news ; 
But Pompey always read these bloody journals, 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



534 A TRUE STORY. 

Full of Killmany and of Killmore work, 
The freaks of some O'Shauncssy's shillaly, 
Ot morning frays by some O'Brien Burke, 
Or iiorrid nightly outrage by some Daly ; 
How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle 
Would fall upon the harmless scull and knock it, 
And if he found an infant in the cradl", 
Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it ;— 




Captain Rock. 

In fact, he read of burner and of killer, 

And Irish ravages, day alter day, 

Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say, 

That " Pompey could not sleep on Pompeys Pillar! 

Judge then the horror of the nigger's face 

To rind — with such impressions of that dire land — 

That Case, — his master, — was a packmg-case 

For Ireland ! 
He saw in fearful reveries arise, 
Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men 
Whose fame associate with Irish plots is, 
Fitzgeralds — Tones — O'Connors — Hares — and then 
"Those Emmets" not so "little in his eyes" 

As Doctor Watts's ! 
He felt himself piked, roasted, carved, and hack'd, 
His big black burly body seem'd, in fact, 
A pincushion fur Terror's pins and needles, — 
Oh, how he wish'd himself beneath the sun 



A TRUE STORY. 535 

OfAfric — or in far Barbadoes — one 

Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles. 

Full of this fright, 
With broken peace and broken English choking, 
As black as any raven, and as croaking, 
Pompey rush'd in upon his master's sight, 
Plump'd on his knees, and clasp'd his sable digits, 
Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets — 
" O Massa ! — Massa ! — Colonel ! — Massa Case ! — 
Not go to Ireland ! — Ireland dam bad place ; 
Dem take our bloods— dem Irish — every drop — 
Oh, why for Massa go so far a distance 

To have him life?" Here Pompey made a stop, 

Putting an awful period to existence. 

" Not go to Ireland — not to Ireland, fellow ! 

And murder'd — why should I be murdei''d, sirrah?" 

Cried Case, with ani^er's tinge upon his yellow- 

Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror 

The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan. 

" Well, what has that to do ? — quick — speak outright, boy !* 

"O Massa ! " — (so the explanation ran) 

" Massa be kill'd — 'cause Massa Orange Afan, 

And Pompey kill'd — 'cause Pompey not a White Boy I" 




Pompey's Pillat, 



536 




" Oh, nothing in life can sadden us ! " 



THE SORROWS OF AN UNDERTAKER* 

TO mention only by name the sorrows of an Undertaker, will be 
likely to raise a smile on most faces, — the mere w ords siigj^est a 
solemn stalking parody of grief to the satiric fancy ; — l)ut give a fair 
heanng to my woes, and even the veriest mocker may learn to pity an 
Undertaker who has been unfortunate in all his undertakings. 

My Father, a Furnisher and Performer in the funeral line, used to 
say of me, — noticing some boyish levities — that " I should never do 
for an Undertaker." I^ut the prediction was wrong — my parent lied, 
and I did for him in the way of business. Having no other alternative, 
I took possession of a very fair stock and business. I felt at first as if 
plunged in the Black Sea — and when 1 read my name upon the shop 
door, it threw a crape over my spirits, that I did not get rid of for 
some months. 

Then came the cares of business. The scandalous insinuated that 
the funerals were not so decorously performed as in the time of the 
Late. I dwcharged my mutes, who were grown fat and jocular, and 
sought about for the lean and 1 ink-visaged kind. But these demure 
roj^ues cheated and robbed me — plucked my feathers and pruned my 
scarfs, and I was driven back again to my " merne men," — whose only 
fault was making a pleasure of their business. 

Soon after this, I made myself prominent in the parish, and obtained 
a contract for Parochial Conchology — or shells for the paupers. But 
this even, as I may say, broke down on its first tressels. Having, as 
my first job, to inter a workhouse female — ^tat. 96 — and wishing to 
gain the good opinion of the parish, I had made the arrangements 
with more than usual decency. The company were at the door. 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



THE SORROWS OF AN UNDERTAKER. 5 '7 

Placing myself at the head, with my best burial face, and my slowest 
solemnity of step, I set forward, and, thanks to my professional deaf- 
ness — induced by the constant hammerini:^ — I never perceived, till t 
the church gates, that the procession had not stirred from the door of 
the house. So i^ood a joke was not lost upon my iwo mutes, who 
made it an excuse for chuckling on after occasions. But to me the 
consequence was serious. A notion arose amongst the poor that I was 
too proud to walk along with their remains, and the ferment ran sa 
high, that I was finally compelled to give up my contract. 

So much for foot-funerals. Now for co.ich-work. The extravagant 
chart;es of the jobbers at last induced me to set up a hearse and 
mournin;4-coaches of my own, with sleek ebony, long-tailed horses to 
match. One of tliese — the finest of the set — had been sold to me under 
warranty of bein^ sound and free from vice ; and so he was, but the 
dealer never told me that he had been a ch irger at Astley's. Accord- 
ingly on his very first performance, in passing through Bow, — at that 




Fairy Land. 



time a kind of Fairy Land, — he thought proper, on hearing a show- 
man's trumpet, to dance a Cotillon in his feathers! There was notliing 
to be done but to travel on with three to the next stage, where I sold 
the caperer at a heavy loss, and to the infinite regret of my merry 
mourners, with whom this exhibition had made him a great favourite. 
From this period my business rapidly declined, till, instead ot five or 



538 THE SORROWS OF AN UNDERTAKER. 

six demises, on an average, I put in only two defuncts and a half pef 

wtek. 

In this extremity a "black job" was brous^ht to me thnt promised 
to make amends for the rest. One tine mornmg a brace of executors 
walked into the shop, and handinjj to me the following extract of a 
will, politely requested that I would perform accordingly — and with 
the pleasing addition that I was to be regirdless of the expense. The 
document ran thus : "Item, I will and desire that after death, my body 
be placed in a strong leaden coffin, the same to be afterwards enclosed 
in one of oak, and therein my remains to be conveyed handsomely 
to the village of *** in Norfolk, my birthplace ; there to lie, being 
duly watched, during one night, in the family mansion now unoc- 
cupied, nnd on the morrow to be carried thence to the church, the 
coffin being borne by the six oldest resident and deciyed i^nrishioners, 
male or fem.ile, and for the same they shall receive severally the sum 
of five pounds, to be paid on or before the day of interment." 

It will be believed that 1 lost no time in preparing the last solid 
and costly receptacles for the late Lady Lambert; and the unusual 
bulk of the deceased seemed in prospective to justify a bill of propor- 
tionate magnitude. I was prodiiial of plumes and scutcheons, of staves 
and scarfs, and mourning coaches ; and finally, raising a whole com- 
pany of black cavalry, we set out by stages, short and sweet, for our 
destination. I had been prudent enougii to send a letter before me 
to prepare the bearers, and imprudent enough to remit their fees in 
advance. But I had no mis.i;ivings. My men enjoyed the excursion, 
and so did I. We ate well, drank well, sleot well, and expected to be 
well paid for what was so well done. At the last stage it happened I 
had rather an intricate reckoning to arrange, by which means, being 
detained a full hour behind the cavalcade, 1 did not reach the desired 
village till the whole party had established themselves at the Dying 
Dolphin — a fact I first ascertained from hearing the merriment of my 
two mutes in the parlour. Highly indignant at this breach of de- 
corum, I rushed in on the offending couple ; and let the Undertaking 
Reader conceive my feelings when the follov.ing letter was put intj 
my hands, explaining at once the good joke of the two fellows, or 
rather that of the whole village. 

" Sir, — We have sought out the six oldest of the pauper parishioners 
of this place, namely as follows : — 

Margaret Squires, aged loi, blind and bedrid. 

Timothy Topping, jiged 98. paralytic and bedrid. 

Darius W^atts, aged 95, with loss of both legs, 

Barbara Copp, 94 years, born without arms. 

Pnilip Gill, about 81, an idiot. 

Mary Ridges, 79, afflicted with St Vitus. 

Among whom we have distributed your Thirty Pounds according 

to desire, and for which they are verv grateful. 

JokN Gills, \ overseers " 

Sam. Rackstrow, / '-'verseers. 

Such were the six bearers who were to carry Lady Lambert to the 
jhurch, and who could as soon have carried the church to Lady 



THE CARELESS E NURSE- MA YD. 



S39 



Lambert. To crown all, I rashly listened to the advice of my thought- 
less mutes, and in an evil hour deposited the body without troubling 
any pirishioner. old or young, on the subject. The consequence is, 
the executors demur to my bill, because I have not acted up to the 
letter of my instructions. I have had to stand treat for a large party 
on tlie road, to sustain all the ch irges of the black cavalry, and am 
besides minus thirty pounds in charity, without even the merit of a 
charitable intention ! 



THE CARELESSE NURSE-MAYD* 

I SAWE a Mayd sitte on a Bank, 

Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond ; 

And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, 

Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond ! 




"Accustomed to the Care of Children." 



All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, 
For She was fayre and He was Kinde; 
The Sunne went down before Slie wist 
Another Sonne had sett behinde ! 

With angrie Hands and frownynge Erowe, 
That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



540 THE LIFE OF ZTMMERMANNi 

She pluckt Him out, but he was now© 

Past being Whipt for fallynge in. 

She then beginncs to wayle the Ladde 
With Shrikes that Echo answerde round—" 
O ! fooHslie Mayd to be soe sadde 
The JMomente that her C.ire was drownd ! 



THE LIFE OF ZIMMERMANN. 
(by himself.)* 

"This, this, is solitude."— Lord Bvron. 

I WAS born, I may almost say, an orphnn : my father died three 
months before I saw the light, and my mother three hours after 
— thus I was left in the wliole world alone, and an only child, for I 
had neither brotliers nor sisters ; much of my after-passion for soli- 
tude might be ascribed to this cause, for I believe our tendencies date 
themselves from a much enrlier age, or rather youth, than is generally 
imagined. It was remarked that 1 could go alone at nine months, and 
I have had an aptitude to ijomg alone ;.il the rest of my life. The 
first words I learnt to say, were " I by myself, I " — or thou— or he— 
or she — or it — but I was a long tmie before I could pronounce any 
personals in the plural. My little games and habits were equally sin- 
gular. 1 was fond of plaving at Solitary or at Patience, or another 
>.'ame of cards of my own invention, namely, whist, with three dummies. 
Of books, my favourite was Robinson Crusoe, especially the first part, 
for I was not fond of the intrusion of Friday, and thought the natives 
really were Savages to spoil such a solitude. At ten years of age I 
was happily placed with the Rev. Mr Steinkopff, a widower, who took 
in only the limited number of six pupils, and had only me to begin 
with : here 1 enjoyed myself very much, learning in a first and List 
class in school hours, and playing in playtnne at hoop, and other 
pietiv games not requiring partners. My playground was, in short, 
a Garden of Eden, and I did not even sigh for an Eve; but, like Para- 
dise, it was too haopy to last. I was removed from Mr Steinkopff's 
. to the University of GotiinLjen, and at once the eyes of six hundred 
pu[)ils, and the pupils of twelve hundred eyes, seem fastened upon me : 
1 felt like an owl forced into daylight ; often and often I shamni'd 
ill, as an excuse for confining myself to my chamber, but some officious 
would-be friends, insisting on coming to sit with me, as they said, to 
enliven my solitude, I was forced as a last resource to do that which 
subjected me, on the principle of Howard's Prison Disci|)line, to soli' 
tary confinement. But even this pleasure did not list ; the heads of 
the College found out that solitary confinement was no punishment, 
and put another student in the same cell ; in tliis extremuy I had no 
aliernative but to endeavour to make him a convert to my princi les, 
and ir some days I succeeded in convincing him ot the individual in- 
* Comic Annual, 1832. 



THE LIFE OF ZIMMERMANN. 541 

dependence of man, t'.ie solid pleasures of solitude, and the hollow one 
of society, — in short, he so warmly adopted my views, that in a trans- 
port of sympathy we swore an eternal friendship, and agreed to separiite 
for ever, and keep ourselves to ourselves as much as possible. To this 
end we formed with our blanket a screen across our cell, and that we 
might not even in thought associate with e<ich other, he soliloquised 
only in Frei)L,h, of which I was ignorant, and I in English, to which 
he wiS equally a stranger. Under this system my wishes were grati- 
fied, for I think I felt more intensely lonely than I ever rememlier when 
more strictly alone. Of course this condition had a conclusion ; we 
were brought out ngain unwillingly into the common world, and the 
firm of Zimmermann, Nobody, and Co.. w?^ compelled to admit— six 
hundred partners. In this extremity, my lellow-prisoner Zinglcman 
and myself had recourse to the persuasions of oratory. We preached 
solitude, and got quite a congregation, and of the six hundred hearers, 
four hundred at least became converts to our Unitarian doctrine .; 
every one of these disciples strove to fly to the most obscure recesses, 
and the little cemetery of the College had always plenty of those 
wlio were trying to make tht mselves scarce. This of course was af- 
flicting ; as in the game of puss in a corner, it was difficult to get a 
corner unoccupied to be alone in ; the defections and desertions from 
the College were consequently numerous, and for a long time the state 
gazette contained daily advertisements for missing gentlemen, with a 
description of their persons and habits, and invariaoly concluding with 
this sentence : "Of a melancholy turn, — calls himself a Zimmermanian, 
and affects solitude." In fact, as Schiller's Robbers begot Robbers, so 
did my solitude beget solitudinarians, but with this difference, that 
the dr.matisi's disciples frequented the Highways, and mine the Bye- 
ways 1 

The consequence was what might have been expected, which I had 
foreseen, and ardently desired. I was expelled from the University 
of Gottingen. This was perhaps the triumph of my life. A grand 
dinner was got up by Zingleman in my honour, at which more than 
three hundred were present, but in tacit hoinage to my principles, 
tliey never spoke nor held any communication with each other, and 
at a concerted signal, the toast of "Zimmermann and Solitude" was 
drunk, by dumb show, in appropriate solemn silence. I was much 
aifected by this tribute, and left with tears in my eyes, to think, with 
such sentiments, how many of us might be thrown together again. 
Iking thus left to myself, like a vessel with only one hand on board, 
I was at li'oerty to steer my own course, and accordingly took a lodg- 
ing at Number One, in Wilderness Street, that held out the inviting 
pr. spect of a single room to let for a single man. In this congenial 
situation I composed my great work on Solitude, and here I think 
it necessary to warn the reader against many spurious books, calling 
themselves "Companions to Zimmermann's Solitude," as if solitude 
could have so( iety. Alas ! from this work. I may date the decline 
which my presentiment tells me will terminate in my death. My book, 
though written against populousness, became so popular, that its 
author, though in love with loneliness, could never loe alone. Striv- 
ing to fly from tlie face of man, I could never escape it, nor that o 



542 



THE LIFE OF ZIMMERMANN. 



woman and child into the bargain. When I stirred abroad mobs sur- 
rounded me, and cried, "Here is the Solitary ! '" — when I stayed at home 
I was equally crowded ; all the public societies of Gottingen thmiLht 
proper to come up to me with addres^^es, and not even by deputation. 
Flight was my only resource, but it did not avail, for I could not lly 
from myself. Wherever I wtnt Zimmermann and Solitude had got be- 
fore me, and their votaries assembled to meet me. In vain I travelled 
throughout the European and Asi.itic continent: with an enthusiasm 
and perseverance of which only Germans are capable, some of my 
countrymen were sure to hnunt me, and really showed, by the dis- 
tnnce they journeyed, that they were ready to go all lengths with me 
and mv doctrine. Some of these pilgrims even brought their wives 
and children along with them in search of my solitude ; and were so 
unreasonable even as to murmur at my taking tne inside of a coach 
or the cabin of a packet-boat to myself. 

From these persecutions I wis released by what some persons 
would call an unfortunate accident — a vessel in which I sailed from 
Le'jhorn, going down at sea with nil hands excepting my own pair, 
which happened to have grappled a hen-coop. 'I'hcre was no sail in 
sight, nor any land to be seen — nothing but sea and sky ; and from 
the midst of the watery exp:mse it was perhaps the first and only 
glimpse I ever had of real and perfect solitude, yet so inconsistent is 
human nature, I could not really and perfectly enter into its enjoy- 
ment. I was picked up at length by a British brig of war ; and, 
schooled by the past, had the presence of mind to conceal my name, 
and to adopt the English one of Grundy. Under this noni de s^iicrre, 
but really a name of peace, I enjoyed comparative quiet, interrupt<d 
only by the pertinacious attendance of an unconscious countryman, 

who, noticing my very retired 
habits, endeavour by daily lec- 
tures from my own work, to 
make me a convert to my own 
principles. In short, he so 
wore me out, that at last, to get 
rid of his importunities, I told 
him in confidence that I was 
the author himself. But the 
result was anything but what 
1 expected ; and here I must 
blush a.L'ain for the inconsis- 
tency of human nature. While 
Winkells knew me only as 
Grundy, he pninlcd nothing but 
the charms of Solitude, and ex- 
horted me to detach myself 
from society ; but no soonci 
did he learn that I was Zim- 
mermann, th..n he insisted on 

my going to Lady C s 

rout and his own conversatione. In fact, he wanted to nnko 
me, instead of a Lion of the Desert, a Lion of the Menagerie. How 




" Sare, I am at where? — " 
"Well, I know you be !" 



THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 543 

I rc'^ented such a proposition may be supposed, as well as his offer 
to procure for me the first vacancy that happened in the situation of 

Hermit at Lord P ^'s Hermitage ; being, as he was pleased to say, 

not only able to bear solitude, but well-bred and well-informed, and ht 
to receive company. The effect of this unfortunate disclosure was to 
make me leave England, for fear of meeting with the fate of a man 
or an ox that ventures to quit the common herd. I should immedi- 
ately have been declared mid, and mobbed into lunacy, and then put 
inio solitary confinement, with a keeper always with me, as a person 
beside himself, and not fit to be left alone for a moment. As such a 
fate would have been worse to me than de.ith, I immediately left 
London, and am now living anonymously in an uninhabited house,— 
prudence forbids me to say where. 



/ 



THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS,"* 

•The Needles have sometimes been fatal to Mariners.* — Picture qfItU o/Wightt 

One close of day — 'twas in the Bay 

Of Naples — bay of glory ! — 

While light was hanging crowns of gold 

On mountains high and hoary, 

A gallant bark got under weigh, 

And with her sails my story. 

For Leghorn she was bound direct, 
With wine and oil for cargo, 
Her crew of men some nine or ten. 
The captain's name was lago ; 
A good and gallant bark she was, 
La Donna (call'd) del Lago. 

Bronzed mariners were her's to view, 
Witli brown cheeks, clear or muddy, 
Dark, shining eyes, and coal-black hair. 
Meet heads for painter's study ; 
But 'midst their tan there stood one matt 
Whose cheek was fair and ruddy ; 

Hij brow was high, a loftier brow 
Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, 
His hair a little scant, and when 
He doff'd his cap or bonnet, 
One saw that Grey had gone beyond 
A premiership upon it ! 

His eye — a passenger was he, 
Tbe cabin he had hired it, — 

* Comic Annual 1833. 



>44 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS, 

His eye was grey, and when he look'd 
Around, the prospect fired it — 
A line poetic light, as if 
The Appe-Nine inspired it. 

His frame was stout — in height about 
Six feet — well made and portly ; 
Of dress and manner just to give 
A sketch, but very shortly, 
His order seem'd a comi)osite 
Of rustic with the courtly. 

He ate and quaff'd, and joked and laugh'l!^ 

And chatted with the seamen, 

And often task'd their skill and ask'd, 

" What weather is't to be, man?" 

No d' monstration there appear'd 

That he was any demon. 

No sort of sign there was that he 
Could raise a stormy rumpus, 
Like Prospero make breezes blow, 
And rocks and billows thump us,— 
But liule we supposed what he 
Could with the needle compass ! 

Soon came a storm— the sea at first 
Seem'd lying almost fallow — 
When lo ! full crash, with billowy dash. 
From clouds of black and yellow, 
Came such a gale, as blows but once 
A century, like the aloe! 

Our stomachs we had just prepared 

To vest a small amount in ; 

When, gush ! a flood of brine came down 

The skylight — quite a fountain. 

And right on end the table rear'd. 

Just like the Table Mountain. 

DoA\ n rush'd the soup, down gush'd the wine^ 

Each roll, its role rcpentin;::, 

RoU'd down — the round of beef declared 

For partin<; — not for mealing ! 

Off flew the fowls, and all the game 

Was *' too far gone for eating ! ". 

Down knife and fork — down went the pork. 

The lamb too broke its tether ; 

Down mustard went— each condiment — 

Salt — pepper— all together! 

Down everything, like craft that seek 

The Downs in sio' my weather. 



THE COMPASS, WITH VAKIATIONS. 

Down plunged the Lady of the Lake^ 
Her timbers seem'd to sever ; 
Down, down, a dreary derry down, 
Such lurch she had gone never ; 
She ahnost seem'd about to take 
A bed of down for ever i 



545 




A Stonn in Table Bay, 

Down dropt the captain's nether jaw, 

Thus robb'd of aU its uses, 

He thought he saw the Evil One 

Bfside Vesuvian sluices, 

Playing at dice for soul and ship, 

And throwing Sink and Deuces. 

Down fell the steward on his face, 
To all the Saints commending ; 
And candles to the Virgin vowd, 
As save-alls 'gainst his ending. 
Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, 
Check-male, v\as close impenduig ! 

Down fell the cook — the cabin boy, 
Tlieir beads with fervour telling, 
"While alps of serge, with snowy vtri^e. 
Above the yards came yelling, 
Down fell the crew, and on thtir knees 
Shuddtr'd at each white swelling ! 



2 M 



546 



THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 

Down sunk the sun of bloody hue, 

His crimson Hght a cleaver 

To each red rover of a wave : 

To eye of fancy-weaver, 

Neptune, the God, seem'd tossing in 

A raging scarlet fever ! 

Sore, sore afraid, each Papist pray'd 

To Saint and Virgin Mary ; 

But one there was that stood composed 

Amid the waves' vagary : 

As staunch as rock, a true game cock 

'Mid chicks of Mother Gary ! 

His ruddy cheek retain'd its streak. 
No danger seem'd to shrini< him ; 
His step still bold, — of mortal mould 
The crew could hardly think him : 
The Lady of the Lake, he seem'd 
To know, could never sink him. 

Relax'd at last, the furious gale, 
Quite out of breath with racmg ; 




A Ruff Sea. 



The boiling flood in milder mood. 
With gentler billows chasmi; ; 
From stem to stem, with frequent turn, 
The Stranger took to pacing. 



THE COMPASS, WITH VARIA TIONS, 347 

And as he walk'd to self he talk'd, 

Some ancient ditty thrumming, 

In under tone, as not alone — 

NoA' whisUini^, and now humming — 

*' You're welcome, Charlie," " Cowdenknowes,* 

*' Kenmure," or " Campbells' Coming." 

Down went the wind, down went the wave, 

Fear quitted the most finical ; 

Tiie Saints, I wot, were soon forgot, 

And Hope was at the pinnacle : 

When rose on high, a frightful cry— 

"The Devil's in the binnacle ! " 

" The Saints be near," the helmsman cried. 

His voice with quite a falter — 

" Steady's my helm, but every look 

The needle seems to alter ; 

God only knows where China lies, 

Jamaica, or Gibraltar ! " 

The captain stared aghast at mate, 

The pilot at th'apprentice ; 

No fancy of the German Sea 

Of Fi( tion the event is : 

But when they at the compass look'd. 

It seem'd non compass mentis. 

Now north, now south, now east, now west* 

The wavering point was siiaken, 

'Twas past the whole philosophy 

Of Newton, or of Bacon ; 

Never by compass, till that hour. 

Such latitudes were taken ! 

With fearful speech, each after each 
Took turns in the inspection ; 
They found no gun — no iron — none 
To vary its direction ; 
It seem'd a new magnetic case 
Of Poles in Insurrection ! 

Farewell to wives, farewell their lives, 

And all their household riches ; 

Oh ! while they thougiu of girl or boy, 

And dear domestic niches, 

All down the side which holds the hearty 

That needle gave them stitches. 

With deep amaz ■, the Stranger gazed 
To see them so white-iivcr'd ; 



548 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS, 

And walk'd abaft the binnacle, 
To know at what they shiver'd ; 
But when he stood beside the card, 
St Josef ! how It quiver'd ! 

No fancy-motion, brain-begot, 
In eye of timid dreamer — 
The nervous finger of a sot 
Ne'er show'd a plainer tremor ; 
To every brain it seem'd too plain, 
There stood th' Infernal Schemer ! 

Mix'd brown and blue each visage grew. 
Just like a pullet's gizzard ; 

Meanwhile the capt lin's wandering wit. 
From tacking like an izzard, 
Bore down in this plain course at last, 
" It's Michael Scott— the Wizard !" 

A smile past o'er the ruddy face, 
" To see the poles so falter 
I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you, 
For with no fiends I palter ; 
Michael I'm not— although a Scott— 
My Christian name is Walter." 

Like oil it fell, that name, a spell 

On all the fearful faction ; 

The Captain's head (for he had read) 

Confess'd the Needle's action, 

And bow'd to Him in wliom the North 

Has lodged its main attraction ! 




A Star of the First Magnitude. 



549 




Protecting the Fare. 



THE DUEL* 



A SERIOUS BALLAD. 
'Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay." 



In Brentford town of old renown, 
There lived a Mister Bray, 

Who fell in love with Lucy Bell, 
And so did Mr Clay. 

To see her ride from Hammersmith, 

By all it was allow'd, 
Such fair outsides are seldom seen, 

Such Angels on a Cloud, 

Said Mr Bray to Mr Clay, 

You choose to rival me. 
And court Miss Bell, but there your 
court 

No thoroughfare shall be. 

Unless you noVv give up your suit, 
Ynu may repent your love ; 

I wlio have shot a pigeon match. 
Can shoot a turtle dove. 

So pray before you woo her more. 

Consider wiiat you do ; 
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell, — 
I'll pop it into you. 



Said Mr Clay to Mr Bray, 
Your threats I quite explode ; 

One who has been a volunteer, 
Knows how to prime and load. 

And so I say to you unless 
Your passion quiet keeps, 

I who have shot and hit ludls' eyes, 
May chance to hit a sheeji's. 

Now gold is oft for silver changed, 

And that for copper red ; 
Bur these two went away to give 

Each other change fur lead. 

But first they sought a friend a-piece. 

This pleasant thought to give- 
When they were dead, they thus 
should have 

Two seconds still to live. 

To measure out the ground not long 

The seconds then forbore, 
And having taken one rash step 

They took a dozen more. 



Comir Annual, 1831. 



55° 



ODE TO MR MALTHUS. 



Tht y next prepared eacli pistol-pan 

Attain ^t the deadly strife. 
By putting in tlie prime of death 

Against the prime of life. 

Now all was ready for the foes, 
But when tliey took their stands, 

Fearmade them tremble, so they found 
They both were shaking hands. 

Said Mr C. to Mr B., 

Here one of us may fall, 
And like St Paul's Cathedral now, 

Be doom'd to have a ball. 

I do confess I did attach 
Misconduct to your name ; 



If I withdraw the charge, will then 
Your ramrod do the same ? 

Said Mr B., I do agree — 

But think of Honour's Courts ! 

If we go off without a shot. 
There will be strange reports. 

But look, the morning now is bright, 
Thougli cloudy it begun ; 

Why can't we aim al)Ove, as if 
We had cali'd out the sun? 

So up into the harmless air, 
Their bullets they did send: 

And may all (jilier duels have 
That upshot in the end 1 




Exchanging — Receiving the Difference. 



ODE TO MR MALTHUS* 

My dear, do pull the bell, 
And pull it well, 
And send those noisy children all up stairs, 
Now playing hero like bears — 
You George, and William, go into the grounds, 
Charles, James, and Bob are there, — and take your string, 

Drive horses, or fly kites, or anyihin;^-, 
You're quite enough to play at hare and hounds ; — 
You lutle May, and Caroline, and Poll, 

Take each your doll, 
And go, my de rs, into the two-back pair, 
Your sister Margaret's tl^.ere — 
Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school, 
At far-off Punty Pool— 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



ODE TO MR MALTHUS. 

I want to read, but really can't get on — 
Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, 
Go — to their nursery — go-^I never can 
Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan ! 

Oh Mr Malthus, I agree 

In everything I read with thee ! 

The world's too full, there is no doubt, 

And wants a deal of thinning out, — 

It's plain — as plain as Harrow's Steeple — 

And I agree with some thus far, 

Who say the Queen's too popular, 

That is, — she has too many people. 



5S« 




" A Child's call to be disposed of." 

There are too many of all trades, 

Too many bakers, 
Too many e very-thing-makers, 
But not too many undertakers, — 

Too many boys, — 
Too many hobby-de-hoys, — 
Too many girls, men, widows, wives, and maids,— 
There is a dreadful surplus to demolish. 
And yet some Wronghtads, 
With thick not long heads. 
Poor metaphysicians ! 
Sign petitions 
Capital punishment to abolish ; 
And in the face of censuses such vast ones 
New hospitals contrive, 
For keeping life alive. 
Laying first stones, the dolts ! instead of last ones !- 
Others, again, in the same contrariety, 
Deem that of all Humane Society 

They really deserve thanks, 
Because the two banks of the Serpentine 



552 



ODE TO MR MALTHUS. 



By their design, 
Are Savint^' Banks. 
Oh ! were it given but to me to weed 
The human breed, 
And root out liere and there some cumbering elf, 
I thiniv 1 could go through it, 
And re. illy do it 
With profit to the world and to myself. — 



#iPV 




For instance, the unkind among the Editors, 
My debtors, those I mean to say 
Who cannot or who will not pay, 

And all my creditors. 
These, for my own sake, I'd destroy ; 
But for the world's, and every one's, 

I'd hoe up Mrs G 's two sons, 

And Mrs B 's big little boy, 

Call'd only by herself an "only joy." 
As Mr Irving's ch.ipei's not too full, 
Himself alone I'd pull — 
But for the peace of years that have to run, 
I'd make tlie Lord Mayor's a perpetual station, 
And put a period to rotation, 



ODE TO MR MALTHUS, 553 

By rooting up all Aldermen but one,— 
These are but hints what good might thus be done I 

But ah ! I fear the public good 

Is little by the public understood, — 
For instance — if with flint, and steel, and tinder, 
Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man, 
Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan, 
No doubt some busy fool would hinder 
His burning all the Foundhng to a cnider. 



Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday, 

Th.t wine and bun-day, 
Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coatS, 
Before they died by bit or sup, 
Some meddling Marplot would blow up, 

Just at the monic-nt critical, 

The economy political 
Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coatik 



Equally 'twould be undone, 
Suppose the Bishop of London, 
On that grent day 
In June or May, 
When all the lari^e small family of charity, 

Brown, black, or carrotty. 
Walk in their dusty parish shoes, 
In too, too many two-and-twos. 
To sing together till thev scare the walls 

Of old St Paul's, 
Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and whit^ 
Some say a gr itifying sight, 

Tho' I think sad — but that's a schism— 
To witness so much pauperism — 
Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make 
In this poor overcrowded world more room, 

Proposed to shake 
Down that immense extinguisher, the dome- 
Some humane Martin in the charity (7a/- way 
I fear would come and interfere, 
Save beadle, brat, and overseer, 
To walk back in their parish shoes, 
In too, too many two-and-twos, 
Islington — Wapping — or Pall Mall way I 

Thus, people hatch'd from froose's egg. 
Foolishly think a pest, a plague, 
And in its face their doors all shut, 
On hinges oil'd with cajeput — 



554 ODE TO MR MALTHUS. 

Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, 

And turning pale as linen rags 

At hoisting up of yellow flags, 
While you and I are crying " Orange Boven !" 
Why should we let precautions so absorb us, 
Or trouble shipping with a quarantine — 
When if I understand the thing you mean. 
We ought to import the Cholera Morbus 1 



— Q-___^%^V^l,lj: 







Fancy Portrait — Mr Malthus. 



A GOOD DIRECTION* 

A CERTAIN gentleman, whose yellow cheek 
Proclaim'd he hid not been in living quite 

An anchorite — 
Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day ; 
At last, by friends' advice, was led to st ek 
A surgeon of great note — named Aberfeldie. 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



A GOOD DIRECTION. 

A very famous author upon diet, 
Who, better starr'd than alchemists of old, 
By dint of turnin;^ mercury to ,^old, 
Had settled at his country house in quiet. 

Our patient, after some impatient rambles 
Thro" Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brainbles 
At last, to m;ike inquiry had the 7ioiis, — 
" Here, my good man, 
Just tell me if you can, 
Pray which is Mr Aberfeldic's house ?" 
The mnn thus siopp'd — perusinii for a while 
The yellow vis.^ge of the man of bile. 
At last made answer, with a bmadish grin : 
" Why, turn to right — and left — and right agin, 
The road's direct — you cannot fail to go it." 

" But stop ! my worthy fellow ! — one word more — 
From other houses how am I to know it ! " 

** How ! — why you'll see blue pillars at the doorl" 



555 




"An AochonM." 



?c? 



556 




A Leadinij Article. 



THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING* 

THE consulter of Johnson's Dictionary under the term of '5port, or 
Sporting, would be led into a great mistike by the Doctor's 
definition. The word, with the great Lexicographer, signities nothing 
but Diver-ion, Amusement, Play : — but I sh.ill submit to the reader, 
with a {^w tacts, whether it has not a more serious connexion, or to 
speak technically, whether it should be Play or Pay. — 

When 1 was a young man, having a good deal of readv money, and 
little wit, — I went upon tlie turf. I began cautiously, and as I 
thought, knowingly. I started first by diligently learning the pedi- 
gree of every new coU — yet somehow, between sire and dam, continu- 
ally losing the ''pony." My fir^^t experiment was at Newmarket. By 
May of securing a leading article, I b icked the Duke o{ Leeds, but the 
race came off, and the Diii<e was not placed. I asked eagerly who 
was first, and was told Forth. The winner was a slow but strong 
horse, and I was informed had got in front bv being a taster. This 
was d. puzzle, but I paid for my Riddlesworth, and preoared for the 
Derby. By good luck I selected an excellent colt to stand upon — he 
had Ki^^xx tried— it was a booked thing — but the day before the Derby 
there w is a family wash, and the laundress hung her wet linen on 
his lines. 1 paid again. I took advice about the Oaks, and instead 
of ba king a single horse, m-de my stand, like Ducrow, upon four at 
once. No luck. Terror did not start--Fury came roaring to the 
post- -Belle was told out, and Comet was tail'd off. I paid ag lin - 
and began dabbling in the Sweepstakes, and burning my fingers with 
the Maiches. Amongst others, a bet offered that I conceived was 
peculiarly temnting, 20.000 to 20 against Post Obit — a bad horse 
mdeed, Vft such odds seemed unjustifiable, even against an "outsider." 
But I soon found my mistake. The outsider was in reality an insider. 
— filling the stomachs of somebody's hounds. — Pav a-jain ! I resolved 
however to retaliate, and the ojipoitunity presented itself. I had been 

* Comic .\niiaal. iS;o 



THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING. 



557 



confidently informed that Centipede had not a leg to stand on, and 
according laid against him as thick as it would stick. The following 
was the report of the race : ' Centipede jumped off at a tremendous 
pace, — had it all his own way — and justified his name by comin:_; m 
a hundred feet in front.'— Pay again ! These " hollow " matters, how- 
ever, fretted me little, save in pocket. They were won easy, and lost 




Sweepstakes : — " Every Jenny has a Jockey." 



to match— but the " near things " were unbearable. To lose only by 

half a head, — a few inches of horse-flesh ! I remember two occasions 

when Giraffe won by "a 

neck," and Elephant by 

" a nose." I was almost 

tempted to blow out my 

brains by the nose, and 

to hang myself by the 

neck ! 

On one of those doubt- 
ful occasions, when it is 
difficult to name the 
winner, I thought I could 
determine the point, from 
some peculiar advantage 
of situation, and offered 
to back my opinion. I 
laid that Cobbler had 
won, and it was taken 




The Cows' Regatta. 

but a signal from a friend decided me that 



I was wrong, and by way of hedge, I offered to lay that Tmk^r was 



558 



THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING. 



the first horse. This was taken like the other, and the judges 
declared a dead rob — I mean to say a dead heat. — Pay again ! 

A likelier cliance next offered. There was a difference of opinion, 
whether Bnhta would start for the Cup, and his noble owner had 
privately and positively assured me that he would. I therefore betted 
freely that he would run for the Plate, and he ivalked over ! — Pay 
atjam ! N.B. I found when it was too late that I should not li.T-e 
paid in this ease, but I did. 

The ^Teat St Leger was still in reserve. Somewhat dcsp'^-aitj, I 
betted round, in sums of the same shape, and my best wmiier became 
first favourite at the start. Never shall I fori;ei the sight ! I saw 
him come in ten lengths a-head of everything — hollow ! hollow ! I 
had no voice to shout with, and it was fortunate. Man and horse 
went, as usual, after the race to be weighed, and were put i'lto the 
scale. They rose a little in our eyes, and sunk proportionably in our 
estimation. Roguery was sniffed — the Jockey Club was appealed to, 
and it gave the stakes to the second hoise. All bets went with the 
stakes, and so — Pay again ! 

It was time to cut 
the turf — and I was 
in a mood for burn- 
ing it too. I was 
done by Heath, but 
the impression on 
my fortime was not 
in the finished style. 
I now turned my at- 
tention to aquatics, 
and having been un- 
fortunate at the One 
Tun, tried my luck 
in a vessel of twenty. 
I became a member 
of a Yacht Club, 
made matches which 
I lost — and sailed 
for a Cup at the 
Cowes' Regatta, but 
carried away nothin<; 
but my o«n bow- 
sprit. Other boats 
showed more speed, but mine most bottom ; for after the match it 
upsit, and I was picked up by a party of fishermen, who spared mv 
liie and took all I had, by way of teachmg me, that a preserving is not 
a saving. — Pay again ! 

It was time to dispose of The. Lucky Lass. I left her to the mue, 
with peremptory orders to make a sale of her ; — an instruction he ful- 
filled by making all the sail on her he could, and disposing of her — 
by contract — to a rock, whde he was threading the Needles. In tiie 
meantime I betook my.-^elf to the chase. Sir W. W. had just cut his 
back, and I undertook to deal with the dogs ; — but I found dog's meat 




A Party of Pleasure. 



THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING. 



559 



a dear item, though my friends killed my hunters for me, and I 
boil'd my own horses. The subscribers, moreover, were not punctual, 
and whatever differences fell out, I was obliged to make tliem 
up. — Pay again ! At last I happened to have a dispute with a 




"Pointer and Disappointer. 



brother Nimrod as to the capability of his Brown and mine, and 
we agreed to decide their respective rates, as church rates, by ;i 
Steeple chase. The wager was heavy. I rode for the wrong steeple 




A Steeple Chase. 

— leapt a dozen gntes— and succeeded in clearing my own pocket.— 
Pay ai; lin ! 

It was now necessary to retrench. I gave up hunting the county, 



56o 



THE PLEASURES OF SPORTING. 



lest the county should repay it in kind, for I was now getting into its 
debt. I laid down my horses and took up a gun, leased a shooting- 
box, iuid rented a manor, somewhat too far north tor me, for afier a 
lew moves, 1 ascertained that the game had been drawn before 1 took 
to it. It vvas useless, therefore, to try to beat — the dogs, for svant of 
birds, began to pomt at butterflies. My friends, however, looked for 
gtuuse, Jio I bought them and paid the carriage. — Pay agam ! 

Otlier experiments I must abridge. I found pugilistic sporting, ns 
usual — good with both hands at receiving : — at cockmg the " in-gues" 
were fir exceeded by the ''out-gnes :" — and at the gaming table, that 
it w.is very difficult to pay my wa\ — particularly in coining back. In 
short I learned pages of meanings at school without trouble, — but the 
signific.itinn of that one word. Spurting, in manliood has been a long 
and an unC"m(ortable lesson, and I have still an unconquerable relish 
ol its bittetness, in spite of the considerate attentions of my friends .— • 

*' From Sport to Sjjort they hurry me 
To banish my regret, 
Aiid when tliey win a smile from me 
They think that I forget." 




56i 




A Political Union. 



THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT* 



" So, while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relaiions, and flattered ravelf that I 
should ouiwit and incense ihem all, behold, my hopes are to be crushed at one- by my 
aunt's consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But lierc, sir, — here is the 
picture!" — Lydia Languish. 



O DAY^ of old, O days of knights, 

Of tourneys and of tilts. 

When love was balk'd and valour 

stalk 'd 
On high heroic stilts — 
Where are ye gone? — adventures 

cease. 
The world gets tame and flat, — 
We've nothing now but New Police — 
There's no Romance in that ! 



I wish I ne'er had learn'd to read, 
Or Radcliffe how to write ; 
That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, 
And Lewis cloister 'd quite! 

* Cumic Annual, 1833 



Would I had never drunk so deep 
Of dear Miss Porter's vat ; 
I only turn to life, and weep — 
There's no Romance in that ! 



No bandits lurk — no turban'd Turk 

To Tunis bears me off ; 

I hear no noises in the night 

Except my mother's cough ; 

No Bleeding Spectre haunts the 

house , 
No shape, but owl or bat, 
Come flittin;; after moth or mouse — 
There's no Romance in that ! « 



2 K 



562 



THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 



I liave not any grief profound, 

Or seciets to confess; 

?^!y story would not fetcli a pound 

Fi>r A. K. Newman's press; 

In.^tead of looking thin and pale, 

I'm growing red and fat, 

As if I lived on beef and ale — 

Theie s no Romance in that ! 

It's very hard, by land or sea 

Some strange event I court. 

But nothing ever comes to me 

That's worth a pen's report : 

It really made my temper chafe, 

Each coast that I was at, 

1 vow'd and rail'd, and came home 

safe — 
There's no Romance in that ? 



The only time I had a chance, 

At Brighton one fine day. 

My chestnut mare began to prance, 

Took fright, and ran away ; 

Alas ! no Captain of the Tenth 

To stop my steed came pat , 

A butcher caught the rein at length — 

There's no Romance in that ! 

Love — even love— goes smoothly on 

A railway sort of track — 

No flinty sire, no jealous Don ! 

No hearts upon the rack ; 

No Polydore, no Theodore — 

His ugly name is Mat, 

Plain Matthew Pratt, and nothing 

more- — 
There's no Romance in that ! 




Tom Bowling. 



He is not dark, he is not tall. 
His foreliead's rather low, 
fl" IS not pensive — not at all, 
But smiles hu teeth to show ; 



Ho comes from Wales, and yet in size 
Is really but a sprat. 
With sandy hair and greyish eyes — 
There's no Romance in that \ 



THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT, 



563 



He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks, 
Or long sword hanging down ; 
He dresses much like other folks, 
And commonly in brown ; 
His collar he will not discard. 
Or give up his cravat, 
Lord Byron-like — he's not a bard — 
There's no Romance m that ! 

He's rather bald, his sight is weak. 

He's deaf in either drum ; 

Without a lisp he cannot speak, 

But then — he's worth a plum. 

He talks of stocks and three per cents 

By way of private chat, 

Of Spanish bonds, and shares, ai.u 

rents — 
There's no Romance m that ! 

I sing — no matter what I sing, 

Di Tanti, or Crudel, 

Tom Bowhng, or God save the King, 

Di Piacer — All's well ; 

He knows no more about a voice 

tor singmg than a gnat ; 

And as to music " has no choice" — 

There's no Romance in that 1 



Of light guitar T cannot boast, 

He never serenade^ ; 

He writes, acd sends it by the post, 

lie doesn't bribe the maids • 

No steallli, no hempen ladder — no ! 

He conies with loud rat-tat, 

That startles half of Bedford Row— 

There's no Romance in that \ 

He comes at nine in time to choose' 
His coflee — just two cups. 
And talks with Pa about the news, 
Repeats debates, and sups. 
John helps him with his coat ariglu, 
And Jenkins hands his hat ; 
My lover bows, and says good- 
night— 
There's no Romance in that ! 

I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent, 

My aunt she quite approves. 

My brother wishes joy from Kent, 

None try to thwart our loves ; 

On Tuesday, Reverend Mr Mace 

Will make me Mrs Prati, 

Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place— 

There's no Romance in that. 




Sonettung above ihe Coiumou. 



564 



THE ABSTRACTION.* 

^^•'Draws honey forth that drives men mad." — Lalla RookM, 

THE speakers were close under the bow-window of the inn, and as 
the sash was open, Curiosity herself could not help overhear- 
ing their conversation. So I laid down Mrs Opie's " Illustrations of 
Lying," — which I had found lying in the inn window, — and took a 
glance at the partners in the dialogue. 

One of them was much older than the other, and much taller ; he 
seemed to have grown like quick-set. The other was thick-set. 

" I tell yini, Thomas," said Quickset, " you are a flat. Before you've 
been a day in London, they'll have the teeth out of your very head. 
As for me, Ive been there twice, and know what's what. Take my 
advice ; never tell the truth on no account. Questions is only asked by 
way of pumping ; and you ought always to put 'em on a wrong scent.'' 

" But aunt is to send her man to meet me at the Old Bailey," said 
Thickset, " and to show me to her house. Now, if a strange man says 
tc me, 'Young man. are you Jacob Giles ?' — an't I to ttll him ?" 

" By no manner of means," answered Quickset ; " say you are quite 
another man. No one but a fl.it would tell his name to a strans^er 
abdut London. You see how I answered them last night about what 
was in the waggon. Brooms, says 1, nothing else. A tlat would have 
told them there was the honey-pots underneath ; but I've been to 
London before, and know a thing or two." 

" London must be a desperate place," said Thickset, 

"Mortal !" said Quickset ; " fobs and pockets are nothing ! Your 
watch is hardly safe if you carried it in your inside, and as for 
money" 

" I'm almost sorry I left Berkshire," said Thickset. 

" Poo — poo ! " said Quickset, " don't be afeard. I'll look after ye ; 
che:it me, and they've only one more to cheat. Only mind my advice : 
Don't say anything of your own head, and don't object to anything 
/ say. If I say black's white, don't contradict, Mark that. Say 
everything as I say." 

" 1 understand what you mean," said Thickset ; and, with this lesson 
in his shock head, he be:4an to busy himself about the waggon, while 
his comrade went to the stable for the horses. At last Old Ball 
emerged from the stable-door with the head of Old Dumpling resting 
on his crupper ; when a yell rose from the rear of the waggon, that 
startled even Number 55 at the Bush Inn, at Staines, and brought 
the company running from the remotest box in its retired tea-garden. 

''In the name of everything," said the landlord, "what's the 
matter?" 

*' It's gone — nil gone, by goles !" cried Thickset, with a bewildered 
look at Quickset, as if doubtful whether he ought not to have said it 
was not gone. 

"You don't mean to say the honey-pots!" said Quickset, with 

• Coinic iViimial, 1S33. 



THE ABSTRACTION. 



565 



some alarm, and letting go the bridle of Old Ball, who very quietly 
led Old Dumpling back again into the stable ; " you don't mean to 
say the honey-pots ? " 

'' I dont mean to say the honey-pots," said Thickset, literally foh 
lowinir the instructions lie had received. 

"What made you screech out then?" said Quickset, appealing to 
Thickset. 

"What made me screech out then?" said Thickset, appeahng to 
Quickset, and determined to say as he said. 

" The ft'llovv's drunk,'" said the landlord ; " the ale's got into his head." 

" Ale ! what ale has he had ?" inquired Quickset, rather anxiously. 

"Ale ! what ale have I had?" echoed Thickset, looking sober with 
all his might. 

"He's not drunk," shouted Quickset; "there's something the 
matter." 

'* I'm not drunk ; there is something the matter," bellowed Thickset, 
and with his fore-finger he pointed to the waggon. 

*' You don't mean to say the honey, "said Quickset, his voice falling. 

" I dotit mean to say the honey," said Thickset, his caution rising. 




A lea-Gartlep.. 

The gesture of Thickset, however, had conveyed some vague notioH 
of dan-^r 10 his companion With the agility of a cat he climbed on 
the waL;gnii. and with the superhuman activity of a demon, soon 



566 THE ABSTRACTION. 

pitched down every bundle of besoms. There is a proverb that "nei» 
brooms sweep clean," nnd they certainly seemed to have swept every 
particle of honey clean out of the waggon. 

Oiiiclset was thunderstruck ; he stood gazing at the empty vehicle 
in silence, while his hands wandered wildly through his hair, as if in 
se:irch of the absent combs. 

When he found words at last, they were no part of the Litany. 
Words, however, did not suffice to vent his passion ; and he began to 
stamp and dance about, tid the mud of the stable-yard flew round like 
anything you like. 

"A plague take him and his honey-pots, too," said the chamber- 
maid, as she looked at a ne^v pattern on her best gingham. 

" It's no matter," said Quickset, " I won't lose it The house must 
stand the damage. IVIr Bush, I shall look to you for the money," 

•' He shall look to you for the money," da-capo'd Thickset. 

" You may look till Doomsday," said the landlord. " It's all your 
own fault : I thou:4ht nobody would steal brooms. \^ you had told 
me there was honey, I would have put the waggon under lock 
and key " 

*' Why, there nvas honey," said Quickset and Thickset. 

" 1 don"t know that," said Mr Bush. '' You said last night in the 
kitchen there was nothing but brooms." 

" I heard him," said John Ostler ; " I'll take my oath to his very 
words ! " 

"And so will I," roared the chambermaid, glancing at her damaged 
gow n. 

" What of that? " said Quickset ; " I know I said there was nothing 
but liro<ims." 

•' 1 kiow." said Thickset, " I'm positive he said there was nothing 
bur brooms." 




Stage Effect. 



'•He confesses it himself," said the landlady. 

" And his own man speaks agin him," said the chambermaid. 



MILLER REDIVIVUS. 56J 

"I saw the waggon come in, and it didn't seem to have any honey 
in it," said the head waiter. 

" Maybe the flies have eaten it,'' said the postilion. 

" I've seen two chaps the very moral of them two at the bar of the 
Old Bailey," said Boots. 

" It's a swindle, it is," said the landlady, " and Mr Bush sha'u't pay 
a farthing." 

" They deserve tossing in a blanket," said the chambermaid. 

'* Duck 'em in the horsepond," shouted John Ostler. 

" I think," whispered Thickset, " they are nicking themselves up 
for mischief !" 

There was no time to be lost. Quickset again lugged Old Ball and 
Old Dumpling from the stable, while his com|)anion tossed the brooms 
into the waggon. As soon as possible they drove out of the unlucky 
yard, and as they passed under the arch, I heard for the last time the 
\oice of Thickset : 

" You've been to London before, and to be sure know best ; but 
somehow, to my mind, the telling the untruth don't seem to answer." 

The onlv reply was a thwack, like the report of a pistol, on the 
crupper of each of the horses. The poor anim ils broke directly into 
something liice a canter ; and as the wag_jon turned a corner of the 
street, I shut down the sash, and resumed my " Illustrations of Lying." 



MILLER REDIVIVUS* 

"He is become already a very promising miller." — Bell's Life in LontUm. 

I WAS walking very leisurely one evening down Cripplegate, when 1 
overtook — who could help overtaking him? — a lame, elderly gentle- 
man, who, by the nature of his gait, appeared to represent the Ward. 
Like certain lots at auctions, he seemed always going, but never gone: 
it was that kind of march that, from its slowness, is emphatically called 
halting. Gout, in fact, had got him into a sad hobble, and, like terror, 
made his flesh creep. 

There was, notwithstanding, a lurking humorousness in his face, in 
spite of pace, that reminded you of Quick or Liston in Old Rapid. 
You saw that he was not slow, at least, at a quirk or quip, — not back- 
ward at repartee, — not behindhand with his jest, — in short, that he was 
a great wit thouL;h he could not jump. 

There was something, besides, in his physiognomy, as well as his 
dress and figure, that strongly indicated his locality. He was palpably 
a dweller, if not a native, ot tiiat clime distinguished equally by "the 
rage of the vulture, and the love of the turtle," — the good old City ot 
London. But an accident soon confirmed my surmises. 

In plucking out his handkerchief from one of his capacious coat- 
pockets, the bandana tumbled out with a large roll of manuscript ; 
and as he proceeded a good hundred yards before he discovered the 

• Comic Annual, 1831. 



568 



MILLER REDIVIVUS. 



loss, I had ample time before he struggled back, in his Crawly Com 
mon pace, to the spot, to give the paper a hastj' perusal, and even to 
make a few random extracts. The MS. purported to be a Collection 




Fancy Portrait :— Mr Hobler. 

of Civic Facetiae from the Mayoralty of Alderman * * * * up to the 
present time : and, from certain hints scattered up and down, the 
Recorder evidently considered hnnself to have been, lor wise saws or 
witty, the t(;p sawyer. Not to forestall the pleasure of self-publication; 
I shall avoid all that are, or may be, his own sayings, and give only 
suchy^«jr de mots as have a distinct parentage. 



EXTRACTS FROM THE MS. 

"Alderman F. was very hard of hearing, and Alderman B. wns very 
hard on his infirmity. One day a dumb man was broujjht to the 
Justice-room charged with passing ijad notes. B. declined to enter 
upon the case. ' Go to Alderman F.,' he said : ' when a dumb man 
utters^ a deaf one ought to hear it.'" 



" B. was equally hard on Alderman V.'s linen-drapery. One day 
he came late into court. * I have just come,' said he, ' from V.'s villa. 
He had family prayers last night, and began thus — Now let us read 
the Psalm Nunc Dimities'" 



MILLER REDIVIVUS. 569 

•Old S., the tobacconist of Holborn Hill, wore his own hair tied 
behind in a queue, and had a favourite seat in the shop, with his baclc 
to the window. Alderman B. pointed him out once tome. 'Look! 
there he is, as usual, advertising hi?, pigtail.''" 

"Alderman A. was never very remarkable for his skill in ortho- 
graphy. A note of his writing is still extant, requesting a brother 
magistrate to preside for him, and giving, literatim, the following rea 
son for his own r.bsence : — ' Jackson the painter is to take me off \n my 
Rob of Office, and I am gone to give him a cit.' His pronunciation was 
equally originaL I remember his a^king Alderman C, just before the 
9th of November, whether he should have any men in armour in his 
shew'^ 



" Guildhall and its images were always uppermost with Alderman 
A. It was he who so misquoted Shakespeare : — ' A parish beadle, 
when he's trod upon, feels as much corporal suffering as Gog and 
M agog.' " 

" A well-known editor of a morning paper inquired of Alderman B. 
one day, what he thought of his journal. ' I like it all,' said the alder- 
man, ' but it's Broken Etiglish.' The editor stared and asked lor an 
explanation. ' Why, the List of Basikrupis, to be sure !' " 



*' When Alderman B. was elected Mayor, to give greater ^clat to 
his banquet, he sent for Dobbs, the most celebrated cook of that time, 
to take the command of the kitchen. Dobbs was quite an enthusiast 
in his art, and some culinai-y deficiencies on the part of the ordinary 
Mansion-House professors driving him at last to desperation, he leapt 
upon one of the dressers, and began an oration to them, by this ener- 
getic apostrophe, — ' Gentlemen ! do you call yourselves cooks ! ' " 

"One of the present household titles in the Mansion-House esta- 
blishment was of singular origin. When the celebrated men in armour 
were first exhibited, Alderman P., who happened to be with his Lord- 
ship previous to the procession, was extremely curious in eAamiaing 
the suits of mail, &c., expressing, at the same time, an eager desire to 
try on one of the helmets. The Mayor, with his usu;d consideration, 
insisted on first sending it down to the kitchen to be aired, after which 
process the ambition of the alderman met with its gratitic.ition. For 
some little time he did not perceive any inconvenience from his new 
beaver, but by degrees the enclosure became first uncomfortably, and 
then intolerably, warm ; the coniined heat being aggravated ijy his 
violent but vain struggles to undo the unaccustomed fastenings. An 
armourer was obliged to be sent for before his face could be let out, 
red and rampant as a Brentford lion froin its iron cage. It appeared, 
that in the hurry of the pageant, the chief cook had clapped the 
casque upon the fire, and thus found out a recipe for stewing an alder- 
man's head in its own steam, and for which feat he has retdined the 
title of the head-cook ever since 1 " 



57^-> 



A ZOOLOGICAL RETORT. 



" G., the Common-council-man, wns a Warden of his own company, 
the Merchant Tailors'. At one of their frequent fcstivMls, he took 
u'ith him, to the dinner, a relation, an officor of the Tenth Foot. By 
some blunder, the soldier was taken for one of the fraternitv, but G. 
hastened to correct the mistake : — ' Gentlemen, this isn't one of the 
Ninth piirts of a man — he's one of the Tenth !'" 

" One day there was a dispute, as to the difficulty of cntch-singing, 
Alderman B. struck in, ' Go to Cheshire the Hangman — he'll prove 
to you there's a good deal of Execution in a Catch.'"' 




"A Report on iliC Farm.' 



A ZOOLOGICAL RErORT* 
To Harvey Williams, Esq,, Regent's 'I'eyrace, Portland Park. 

HONNERD SUR.— Being maid a Feller of the Zoological Satiety, 
and I may say by your Honner's meens, threw the carrachter 
yiiur Humbel was favertd with, and witch provd sattisfacktr\ to the 
Burds and Bests, considring I was well qunilitid threw having Bean 
for so menny hears Hed Guardner to your Honner, besides U)okm 
arter tiie Pi-s and Poltry. l^egs to axnolige my great fullness for the 
Sam, and h;im quit cumfittable and happy, sow much b>ow as wen I 

* Comic Annual, iS^I- 



A ZOOLOGICAL REPORT. S7I 

ham amiing the Anymills to reckin myself like Addam in Parodies, 
let alone my Velveteens. 

Honnerd Sur, — avvar of your pnrshalty for Liv Stox and Kettle 
Breading, ham mdust to faver with a Stntement of wat is dun at thf 
F<irm, havin tacken provintial Noais wile I was at Kings-ton with a 
Pekin elefunt for chainges of Hair. As respex a curacy beg to say, 
tlio the Sectary drawd up his Report from his hone datums and mem- 
morandusses, and never set his eyes on my M.E.S.S., yet we has tallys 
to our tails in the Mane. 

Honnerd Sur, — I will sit out with the Ondripids, tho weave add the 
wust lux with them. Scarse anny of the Anymills with fore legs has 
moor nor one Carf. Has to the Wappity Dears, hits wus than the 
Babby afore Kin^; SoUyman, but their his for one littel Dear bctwin 
five femail she hinds. The Sambo Dear as was sent by Mr Spring 
was so unnatral has to heat up her Forn and m consequins the Sin^;- 
Sing is of no use for the lullabis. Has for Corsichan hits moor Boney 
nor ever, But the Axis on innqueries as too littel Axes about .i munth 
hold. Tiie Neil Gow has increst one Carf, but their his no Poles to 
the Qu^'ggys. Their his too littel Zebry but one as not rum to grow ; 
the Report says, "the Mail Owen to the Nessessary Confinement in 
regard to Spaice is verry smal." 

Honnerd Sur, the Satiety is verry rich in Assis, boath Commun 
assis and uncommon nssis, and as the Report recumends will do my 
Inndeverto git the Maltese Cross for your Honncr. The Kangroses 
as reerd up a 1. I'Lie sinal lammily but looks to be ill nust and not well 
put to there feit, and at the surjesting of a femail Feller too was put 
out to the long harmd Babboon to dry nus, but she was too voilent and 
dandled the pure things to deth. The iniunt Zebew is all so ded owen 
to Atemjis with a backbord to prevent groing out of the sholders, bo.ith 
parrents being defourmd with umphs ; but the spin as is suposed was 
hert in the exspearmint, and it sudenly desist. Mr Wallack will be 
glad to here the Wallachian Sheap has add sicks lams, but one was 
pisened by eating the ewes in the garden witch is fatile to kattle. Has 
to Gots we was going on prospus in the Kiddy line, but the Billy Gots 
becum so vishus and did so inenny butts a weak, we was obleeged to 
do away with the Entire. As regards Rahits a contiguous dissorder 
havin got into the Stox, we got rid of tk.e Hole let alone one Do and 
Brewd, witch was all in good Helth up to Good Fridy wen the Mother 
brekfisted on her bunnis. The increas in the Groth of Hairs as bean 
maid an oljjeci, and the advice tacken of Mr Prince and Mr Roland, 
who recumendid Killin one of the Bares for the porpus of Greece. 
We hav a grate number of ginny pigs — their is moor than twenty of 
them in one Pound. 

About Struthus Burds the Ostreaehes is in perfic helth and full of 
Plums. The femail Hen lade too egs wile the Comniitty was sittin 
and we hop they will atch, as we put them under a she Hemew as 
was sittin to Mr Harvy. We propos breading Busturds xeit we hav 
not got a singel s;>ecieman of the specious. Galnatious Burds. 1 am 
sory to say The Curryso has not bread. Hits the moor disapinting 
as we considder these Birds as our Ciax. We sucksided in razing a 
gr.-.te menny Turkys and some intiesting expearimints was maid on 



572 A ZOOLOGICAL REPORT. 

thern by the Commltty and tlie Counsel on Crismtis day. Lickwisa 

on Poltry Fouls with regard to there being of Utility for the Tabel 
and " under the latter head " the report informs " sum results hav bean 
obtained witch air considdered very satisfaclry," but their will be more 
degestcd trials of the subjex as the Report says " the expenriniints 
must be repetid in order to istahlish the accuracy of the deduckshuns." 
Wat is remarkable the hens uressented by Mr Crockford hav not provd 
j;rate layers tho provided with a Deiter Yard dnd pleutey of Turf. We 
hav indevourd to bread the grate Cok of the Wud onely wg have no 
Wud for him to be Cok of— and now for aquotic Warter Burds we 
hav wite Swons but they hav not any cygnitures, and the Black is very 
unrisenable as to expens, but Mr Hunt has offerdto lilack one very lo 
on condishun hits not aloud to go into the Warter. The Polish swons 
wood hav bread onely they did not lay. The Satiety contanes a grate 
number of Gease and w uch thriv all most as well as they wood on a 
commun farm and the Sam with Dux. We wonted to have dukcliiigs 
from the Mandereen Dux but they shook there Heds. Too ears a •go 
a qantitty of flounders and also a qantitty of heals of witch an exact 
acount is recordid wear turned into one of the Ponds but there State 
as not bean looked into since they wear piniced their out of unwillmg- 
nes to disturb the Hotter. At present their exists in one Pond a stock 
of Karps and in too others a number of Gould Fish of the cominim 
Sort. The number left as bean correcly tacken and the ammount 
checkt by the Pellycanes and Herrins and Spunbills and Guls 
aud other piskiverous Burds. Looking at the hole of the Farm in one 
Pint of Vue we hav ben niost suckcesful with Rabits and Poltry and 
Pi;_:j4ins and Ginny Pigs but the breading of sich being well none to 
SkuUboys, I beg as to their methodistical jjrincipals to refer your 
Honner to Master (iorge wen he cunis hoine for the Holedays. I fur- 
got to say that the Parnassian Sheap was acomidated with a Pen to it 
self but produst nothin worth riting. But the attemps we hav maid 
this here, will be prosyculid next here with new Vigors. 

llonnerd 'Sur, — their is an aggitating Skcam of witch I humbly 
aprove verry hiley. 'I'he plan is owen to suin of the Femail Fellers,^ 
and that is to make the Farm a Farm Ornay. For instances the 
Buffioo and Fallo dears and cetra to have their horns Gildid and the 
Mufflons and Sheaps is to have Pink ribbings round there nex. The 
munkys is to ware fancy drcssis and the Ostreaches is to have their 
plums stuck in their heds, and the Pecox tales will be always snrcd 
out on fraim wurks like the hispaliers. All the Bares is to be tort to 
Dance to Wippert's Quadrils and the Lions m.|ins is to be subjective 
to pappers and the curling-tongues. The gould and silver Fesants is 
to be Pollisht evry dav with Plait Powder and the Cammils and 
Drumdenris and other defourmd anymiils is to be paddid to hide their 
Crukidnes. Mr Howard is to file down the tusks of the wild Bores 
and Peckaris and the Spoons of the Spoonbills is to be inaid as like 
the Kings Patten as posible. The elifunt will be himbelisht with a 
Sugger candid Castle maid by Gunier, and the P'laininggoes will be 
toucht up with Frentch ruge and the Damisels will hav chaplits of 
heartihtial Flours. Tlie Sioath is proposd to hav an ellegunt Stait 
Bed— and tiie Bever is to ware one of Perren's lite Warter Proof Hats 



SHOOTING PAINS. 



573 



— and the Balld VuUers baldnes wil be hided by a small Whig from 
Tre^lits. The Grains will be put into trousirs and the Hippotomus 
titc laced for a waste. Experience will dictait menny mnre imbellish- 
ing modes with witch I conclud that 1 am Your Honners Very obleeged 
and humijel former Servant, STEPHEN HUMPHREYS. 




Shooting with Rover and Ranger. 



SHOOTING PAINS* 

"The charge is prepared." — Macheatk. 

If I shoot any more I'll be shot, 

For ill-luck seems determined to star me, 

I have march'd the whole day 

With a gun, — for no pay — 
Zounds, I'd better have been in the army ! 

What matters Sir Christopher's leave ; 

To his manor I'm sorry I came yet ! 
With confidence fraught, 
My two pointers I brought, 

But we are not a point towards game yet ! 

• Comic Annual, 1833. 



574 



SHOOTING PAINS, 

And that gamekeeper too, witli advice ? 
Of my course he has been a nice chalker« 

Not far, were his words, 

I could go without birds ; 
If my legs could cry out, they'd cry " Walker 1 * 

Not Hawker could find out a flaw, — 

]My appointments are modern and JNIantony, 

And I've Ijrouj^ht my own man. 

To mark down all he can, 
But I can't tind a mark for my Antony ! 

The partridges, — where can they lie ? 
I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas, 

As the le.ist I could do ; 

But without even two 
To brace me, — I'm getting quite ULrvousl 



^^^^ 




Canvassing a Burrow — " Come to the Pole." 

To the pheasants — how well they're preserved ! 
My sport's not a jot more beholden, 

As the birds are so shy, 

Fur my friends I must buy, 
And su send " silver pheasants and golden.* 



SHOOTING PAINS. 

I have tried every form for a hare, 

Every patch, every furze that could shroud her, 

\\ itli t il unrel.ix'd, 

Till my patience is tax'd. 
But I cannot be tax'd for hare-powder. 

I've been roaming for hours in three flats 
In the hope of a snipe for a sn-ip at ; 

But still vainly I court 

The percussioning sport, 
I find nothing for " setting my cap at !" 

A woodcock, — this month i- tlie time, — 
Right and left I've made ready my lock for, 

With well-loaded double, 

But spite of my trouble, 
Neither barrel can I tind a cock for ! 

A rabbit I should not despise, 

But they lurk in their burrows so lowly; ^ 

This day's the eleventh, % 

It is not the seventh. 
But they seem to be keeping it hole-y. 



575 




A Double Barrel. 

For a mallard I've waded the marsh, 

And haunted each pool, and each lake — oh ! 

Mine is not the luck, 

To obtain thee, O Duck, 
Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco ! 

For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, 
Large or small J am never to sack bird, 

Not a thrush is so kind 

As to fly, and I find 
I may whistle myself for a blark-bird! 



576 



I nn an -^v I'm !!'.-■.■,■■■. I'm flrv, 
Dis;n)po.mei.i. iiiu Miiicn, anci goadedj 

And so weary an elf, 

I am sick of mvself, 
And with Number One seem o'erlcaded. 

As well one might beat round St Paul's, 
And look out for a cock or a hen there ; 

I have search'd round and round 

All the Baronet's ground, 
But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there ! 

Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, 
But for nightcaps they set me desiring, 

And it's really too bad, 

Not a shot 1 have liad 
With Hall's Powder, renown'd for "quick nringj 

If this is what people call sport, 

Oh ! of sporting I can't have a high sense. 

And there still remains one 

More mischance on my gun — 
'Fined for shooting without any licence." 




577 




The Isle of Ma 



THE BOY AT THE NORE} 



' ' Alone I did it ! — Boy ! ' — Corioianui. 

I SAY, little 15oy at the Nore, 

Do you come from the small Isle of Man? 
Why, your history a m;istery must be, — 

Come tell us as much as you can, 

Little Boy at the Nore 1 

You live, it seems, wholly on water. 

Which your Gambier calls living in clever ;— 

But how comes it, if that is the case, 
You're eternally half stas over, 

Little Boy at the Nore ? 

While vou ride — while you dance — while yod float- 
Never mind your imperfect orthography ; — 

But give us as well ns you can, 
Your watery auto- biography. 

Little l^oy at the Nore ! 



romic Annual, 1833. 



2 O 



578 



THE BOY AT THE NGRE. 



LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR. 

I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore, 

In a sort of sea-ne^us I dwells, 
Half and half 'twixt salt water and nort ; 

I'm reckon'd the first of ihe swells — 

I'm the Boy at the Nore ! 

I lives with my toes to the flounders, 

And watches tliroiigh long days and nights; 

Yet, cruelly eager, men look — 
To catch the first glimpse of my lights — 

I'm the Boy at the Nore i 

I never gets cold in the head, 

So my life on salt water is sweet ; 

I think I owes much of my health 
To being well used to wet feet — 

As the Boy at the Nore ! 




The Buoy at the Nore. 

There's one thing, I'm never in debt — 
Nay ! I liquidates m ire than I oughter;* 

So the man to beat Cits as goes by, 
la keeping the head above water. 

Is the lioy at the Nore ! 

♦ A word caught from some American trader in passingi 



THE BOY AT THE NORB. 

I've seen a good deal of distress, 

Lots of breakers in Ocean's Gazette; 

They should do as I do — rise o'er all, 
Ay, a good floating capital get, 

Like the Boy at the Nore I 

I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart, 
And cheers him, in deep water rolling ; 

And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, 

Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, 
Is the Boy at the Nore ! 

Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off 

For a week to make love with my wheedles ; 

If the tight little Boy at the Nore 

Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles, 

We'd have ttvo .it the Nore ! 

They thinks little of sizes on w;;ter. 
On big waves the tiny one skulks — 

While tiie river has men-of-war on it — 

Yes — the Thames is opprcbs'd with great hulks, 
And the Boy's at the Nore! 

But I've done — for the water is heaving 

Round my body as though it would sink it ! 

And I've been so long pitching and tossing. 
That sea-sick— you d hardly now think it:— 
Is the Boy at the Nore ! 



57f 




As Safe aa tiie Bauk. 



58o 




mm 



"Do thy Spiriting gently.' 



THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT MARY-LE-BONE.* 

"Do you never deviate?" — yohn BnlU 

IT was on the evening of the 7th of November 18 — , that I went by 
invitation to sup with my tnend P., at his house in Hii^h Street, 
Mary-le-bone. The onlv other person present was a Portuguese, by 
name Senor Mendez, P.'s mercantile agent at Lisbon, a person of re- 
markably retentive memory, and most wonderful power of description. 
Tiie conversation somehow turned upon the memorable great e.inh- 

quake at Lisbon, in the year of our Lord , and Seiiur Mend.z, 

who was residing at that time in the Portuguese ca()ital, gave us a 
very hvely picture — if lively it may be called — of the horrors of that 
awful convulsion of nature. The picture was drc.idtul : tiie Senor's 
own house, a substantial stone mansion, was rent from attic to cell >r ! 
?nd the steeple of his parish church left impending over it at an angle 
£ irpassing iliat of the fimous Leaning Tower of Bologna ! 

The Portu:^uese had a wonderiully expressive countenance, with a 
st\ le of narration indescribably vivid ; and as I listened wi:h the most 
intense interest, every dismal circumstance of the c ilamity became 
.-.v. fully distinct to my apnrehcnsion. I could hear the dreary ringing 
o: the bells, sell-tolled from the rocking of the churches ; the swaying 

* Comic Annual, iSji. 



THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE. 581 

to and fro of the steeples themselves, and the unnatural heavirgs nnd 
swellings of the Tagus, were vividly before me. As the agitations 
increased, the voice of the Seiior became awfully tremulous, and his 
seat setmed literally I0 rock under him. I seemed palsied, and could 
see from P.'s looks that lie was simil.irly afiected. To conce.d his 
disorder, he kejt swallowing large gulps from his rummer, and I 
followed his exam.ple. 

This was only the first shock ; — the second soon followed, and, to 
use a popular expression, it made us both "shake in our shoes." 
Terrific, however, as it was, the third was more tremendous ; the order 
of nature seemed reversed ; the ships in the Tagus sank to the bottom, 
and their ponderous anchors rose to the surface ; volcanic fire burst 
forth from the water, and water from dry ground ; the air, no longer 
elastic, seemed to become a stupendous solid, swaying to and fro, and 
irresistibly bnttering down the fabrics of ages ; hollow rumblings and 
moanings, as from the very centre of the world, gave warning of deafen- 
ing explosions, which soon followed, and seemed to shake the very 
stars out of the sky. All this time the powerful features of the Senor 
kept working, ia frightful imitation of the convulsion he was describ- 
ing, and the et'fect was horrible ! I saw P. quiver like an aspen — there 
seenud no such thing as terra firma. Our chairs rocked under us ; 
the floor tossed and heaved ; the candles wavered, the windows clat- 
terc-d, and the teaspoons rang again, ;is our tumblers vibrated in our 
hands. 

Seii tr Mendez at length concluded his nnrrative, and shortly took 
leave ; I stayed but a few minutes after hiin, just to make a remark on 
the appalling character of the story, and then departed myself, — little 
thinking that any part of the late description was to be so speedily 
realised by my own experience ! 

The hour being late, and the servants in bed, P. himself accom- 
panied me to the door. I ought to remark here that the day had been 
uncomnmnly serene, — not a breath stirring, as was noticed on the 
morning of the great catastrophe at Lisbon ; however, P. had barely 
closed the door, when a sudden and violent motion of the earth threw 
me from the step on which I was standing to the middle of the pave- 
ment ; I had got partly up when a second shock, as smart as the first, 
threw me again on the ground. With some difficulty I recovered my 
legs a second time, the earth in the meantime heaving about under 
me like tlie deck of a ship at sea. The street-himps, too, seemed 
violently agitated, and the houses nodded over me as if they would 
fall every instant. 1 attempted -to run, but it was impossible — 1 could 
barely keep on my feet. At one step I was dashed forcibly against 
the wall ; at the next I was thrown into the road ; as the motion be- 
came more violent I clung to a lamp-post, but it swayed with me like 
a rush. A <;reat mist came suddenly on, but I could perceive people 
hurrying about, all staggerinir like drunken men ; some of them 
addressing me, but so confusedly as to be quite unintelligible ; one — 
a lady — passed close to me in evident alarm : seizing her hand, I be- 
sought her to fly with me from the falling houses into the open fields ; 
wiiat answer she made I know not, for at that instant a fresh shock 
threw m.e on my face wiih such violence as to render me quite insen- 



58i THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE. 

sible. Providentially, in this state I attracted the notice of some o\ 
the night-police, who humanely deposited me, for safety, in St Anne's 
watch-liouse till the following morning, vvhen, being sufficiently reco- 
V( red to give a collected account of that eventful evening, the ingenious 
Mr W., of the Morning Herald, was so much interested by my narra- 
tive that he kindly did me the favour of drawing it up for publication 
in the following form : — 

Police Intelligence. — Bozv Street. 

" This morning a stout country gentleman in a new suit of mud, 
evidently town-made, was charged with having walked Wavcrly over- 
night till he '^ot his Kenftelworth in a gutter in Mary-le-bone. The 
Jack-o'-ianthorn who picked him up could make nothing out of him, 
but that he was son'.e sort of a Quaker, and declared that the whole 
country was in a shocking state. He acknowledged having taken 
rather too much Lisboti ; but according to Mr Daly, he sniffed of 
whisky 'as strong as natur.' The defendant attempted with :\ sotto 
voce (anglice, a tipsy voice), to make some excuse, but was stopped and 
fined in tlie usual sum by Sir Richard. He found his way out of the 
office, nuutcrin- that he thought it very hard to have to payyfz/^ hogi 
for being only as drunk as one'' 




".Well, I never could keep my L«i«l". 



533 




pride and Humility. 



ODE TO ST S WITH IN* \ 

"The rain it raineth every day." 

The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, 
On every window-frame hang beaded damps, 
Like rows of small illumination l.mps, 
To celebrate the jubilee of showers ! 
A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves, 
The very dryads are not drj-, but soijpers, 

And from the houses' eaves 

Tumble eaves-droppers. 

The hundred clerks that live along the street, 
Bondsmen to mercantile and City schemers, 
With squashing, sloshing, and g liloshirg feet, 
Go paddling, paddling, tnrcur^h the wet, like steamers. 
Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend — 
Umbrellas pass of every shade of green, 
And now and then a crimson one is seen, 
Like an umbrella ripen d. 

■' Comic Annual, 1830. 



S&t ODE TO ST S WITHIN. 

Over the way a waggon 
Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking. 

While in the Georc;e and Dragon 
The man is keeping himself dry — and drinking! 
The butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray. 

Hats shine — shoes don't — and down droop collars, 
And one blue Parasol cries all the way 

To school, in company with four small scholars ! 

Unhappy is the man to-day who rides. 
Making his journey sloppier, not shorter; 
Ay ! there they go, a dozen of outsides, 
Performing on "a stage with real water !* 
A dripping pauper crawls along the way, 

The only real willing out-of-cloorer, 

And says, or seems to say, 
" Well, 1 am poor enough — but here's z. j>ourer l^ 

The scene in water colours thus I paint, 
Is your own festival, you sloppy Saint 1 
■ Mother of all the family of rainers ! 

Saint of the soakers ! 

Making all people croakers, 
Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers I 
And why you mizzle forty days toi^ether. 
Giving the eartli your water-soup to sup, 
I marvel — Why such wet, mysterious weather? 

I wish you'd clear it up I 

Why cast such cruel dampers 
On pretty picnics, and, against all wishes, 
Set the cold ducks a-s .vimming in the hampers. 
And volunteer, unask'd, to wash the dishes ? 
Why drive the nymphs from the selected spot. 

To cling like ladybirds around a tree? 

Why spoil a gipsy party at their tea, 
By throwing your cold water upon hot ? 

Cannot a rural maiden, or a man. 

Seek Hornsey Wood by invitation, sipping 

Their green with Pan, 
But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping? 
Why upon snow-white tablecloths and sheets, 
That do not wait, or want a second washing, 

Come squashing ? 
Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets, 
As if there were no water-cart contractors, 
No potboys spilling beer, no shopboys ruddy 

Spooning out puddles muddy, 
Milkmaids, and other sloppin- benefactors I 



ODE TO ST SWITHIN. 

A Queen you are, raininc,' in your own right, 
Yet oh ! how little ilaiter'd by report ! 
Even by those that seek the Court, 
Pelted with every term of spleen and spite. 
Folks rail and suear at you in every place ; 
They say you are a creature of no bowel ; 
They say you're always washing Natures face, 
And that you then supply her 
With nothing drier 
Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel ! 
The whole town wants you duck'd, just as you duck it. 
They wish you on your own mud porridge supper'd, 
They hope that you may kick your own big bucket, 
Or in your water-butt go souse ! heels up'.ird ! 
They are, in short, so \\ eary of your drizzle. 
They'd spill the water in your veins to stop it — 
Be warn'd ! You are too partial to a mizzle — 
Pray drop it ! 



555 




"It ncTer rains but it pours,'' 



586 




A Figure of Speech : — A Broad Scotchman. 



THE APPARITION. 

A TRUE STORY.* 

" nnO keep without a reef in a gile of wind like that, Jock was the 
X only boatman on the Firth of Tay to do it ! '' 
" He had sail enou,i;h to blow him over Dundee Law." 
"Slie's emptied her ballast and come up again, with her sails all 
standing— every sheet was belayed with a double turn." 

1 give the sense rather than the sound of the foregoing speeches, for 
the speakers were all Dundee ferry-boatmen, and broad Scotchmen, 
using the extra-wide dialect of Angusshire and Fife. 

At the othf'r end of the low-r^nifed room, under a coarse white sheet, 
sprinkled with sprigs of rue and rosemary, dimly lighted by a small 
candle at the head and another' at the feet, lay the object <if their com- 
mi^nts — a corpse of startling magnitude. In life, poor Jock was of 
unusual stature, but stretching a little, perhaps, as is usual in death, 
and advantaged by the narrow limits of the room, the dimensions 
seemed absolutely supernatural. During the warfare of the Allies 
against Napoleon, Jock, a fellow of some native humour, had distin- 
guished himself by singing about the streets of Dundee b dlads — I 
believe his own — against old Boney. The nickname of Ballad-Jock 
was not his only reward ; the loyal burgesses subscribed aniouij them- 

* Comic Annual, 1831. 



THE APPARITION. 587 

selves, and mnde him that fatal gift, a ferry-boat, the inanagement of 
which we have just heard so sernjusly reviewed. The cat;istrophe 
took place one stormy Sunday, a furious gale blowing against th« 
tide down the livcr — and the T;iy is anything but "hat tlie Irish cnil 
" weak tay,'' at such seasons. In fact, the devoted Nelson, ^\\\\ all 
sails set, — fair-weather fashion, — caught aback in a sudden gust, after 
a convulsive whirl, capsized, and went down in forty f.tthoms, taking 
with her two-and-twenty persons, the greater part of whom were on 
their wav tahear the celebrated Dr Chalmers, even at that time highly 
popular, though preaching in a small church at some obscure village — 
1 forget the name— m Fife. After all the rest had sunk in the waters, 
the huge figure of Jock was observed clinging to an oar, barely afloat, 
when some sufferer probably catching hold of his feet, he suddenly 
disappeared, still grasping the oar, which afterwards springing upright 
into the air. as it rose again to the surface, showed the fearful depth 
to which it had been carried. The body of Jock was the last found : 
about the fifth day, it was strangely enough deposited by the tide 
almost at the threshold of his own dwelling at the Craig, a small pier or 
jetty frequented by the ferry-boats. It had been hastily caught up, 
and, in its clothes, laid out in the manner just described, Iving as it 
were in state ; and the public, myself one, being freely admitted, as far 
as the room would hold, it was crowded by fishwives, mariners, and 
other shore-haunters, except a few feet ne.\t the corpse, which a natural 
awe towards the dead kept always vacant. The narrow death's door 
was crammed with eager hstening and looking heads ; and by the 
buzzing without, there was a large surplus crowd in waiting before the 
dwelling for their turn to enter it. 

On a sudden, at a startling exclamation from one of those nearest 
the bed, all eyes were directed towards that quarter. One ol the 
candles was guttering and sputtering near the socket, — the other just 
twinkling out, and sending up a stream of rank smoke, — but by the 
light, dim as it was, a slight motion of the sheet was perceptible, just 
at that part where the hand of the dead mariner mij^ht be supposed to 
be lying at his side. A scream and sliout of horror burst from all 
within, echoed, though ignoramt of the cause, by another from the 
•crowd without. A general rush was made towards the door, — but 
egress was impossible. Nevertheless horror and dread squeezed up 
the company in the room to half their former compass, and left a far 
wider blank between the living and the dead. 1 confess at first I 
mistrusted my sight ; it seemed that some twitching of the nerves of 
the eye, or the flickering of the shadows, thrown by the unsteady 
flame of the candle, might have caused some optical delusion ; but 
after several minutes of sepulchral silence and watching, the motion 
became more awfully manifest, now proceeding slowly upwards, as if 
the hand of the deceased, still beneath the sheet, was strug;4ling up 
feebly towards his head. It is possible to conceive, but not to describe, 
the popular consternation, — the shrieks of women, — the shouts of men, 
— the struggles to gain the only outlet, choked up and rendered 
impassable by the very efforts of desperation and fear ! Clinging to 
each other, and with ghastly faces that dared wo\. turn from the object 
of dread, the whole assembly backed with united force against the 



588 THE AFPARITION. 

opposite wall, with a convulsive enen^y thnt threatened to force oi.t 
the very side of tlie dwelling — whan, startled before by silent motion, 
but now by sound, with a smart rattle something fell from the bed 
to the floor, and disentangling itself Irom the deatli drapery, displayed 
— a large pound crab ! The creature, witu some design, perhaps sini- 
ster, had been secreted in the ample clothes of the drowned seaman, 
but even the comparative insignificance of this apparition gave but 
little alleviation to the superstitious horrors of the spectators, who 
appeared to believe firmly that it wns only the Evil One himself 
transfigured. Wherever the crab straddled sidelong, infirm beldame 
and sturdy boatman equally shrank and retreated before it, — ay, even 
as it changed place, to crowding closely round the corpse itself, rather 
than endure its diabolical contact. The crowd outside, warned by 
cries from within of the presence of Mahound, had by this time retired 
to a respectful distance,and tlie crab, doin,ir what herculean sinews had 
failed to effect, cleared itself a free passage through the door in a 
twinkling, and, with natural instinct, began crawling as fast as he could 
clapperclaw down the little jetty before mentioned that led into his 
native sea. The satanic spirit, however disguised, seemed every- 
where distinctly recognised. Many at the lower end of the Craig 
leapt into their craft, one or two even into the water, whilst others 
crept as close to the verge of the pier as they could, leaving a thoroui^h- 
fare wide as ''the broad path of honour" to the infernal Cancer. 
To do him justice, he straddled along with a very unaffected uncon- 
sciousness ot his own evil importance. He seemed to have no aim 
higher than salt water and sand, and had accomplished half the dis- 
tance tov\ards them, when a little decrepit poor old sea-mamer, gene- 
rally known as " Creel Katie," made a dexterous snatch at a hind 
claw, and, before the crab-devil was aware, deposited him in her 
patchwork auron, with a " Hech, sirs, what for are ye gaun to let 
gang siccan a braw partane?" In vain a hundred voices shouted out, 
" Let him bide, Katie, — he's no cannie ; " fish or fiend, the resolute old 
dame kept a fast clutch of her prize, promising him, moreover, a com- 
fortable simmer in the muckle pat, for the benefit of herself and that 
" puir silly body the gudeman ;" and she kept her word. Before 
niglit the poor devil was dressed in his shell, to the infinite horror of" 
all her neighbours. Some even said that a black figure, with horns, 
and wings, and hoofs, and forky tail, in fact, Old Clooty himself, liad 
been seen to fly out of the chimney. Others said that unwholesome 
and unearthly smells, as of pitch and brimstone, had reeked forth from 
the abominable thing throu.i;h door and window. Creel Kate, how- 
ever, persisted, ay, even to her dying day and on her deathbed, that 
the crab was as sweet a crab as ever was supped on, and that it 
recovered her old husband out of a very poor low way,— adding, "And 
that was a thing, ye ken, the deil a deil in the Du!) o' Darkness wad 
hae dune for siccan a gude man, and kirkgoing Christian body, as my 
aiu douce Davie." 



SSq 




''Palmam qui meruit fcraL" 



THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO* 

•♦The Admiral compelled them all to strike." — Life of NeUoHt 

Hush ! silence in school — not a noise ! 
You shall soon see there's nothing to jeer at ; 
Master Marsh, most audacious of boys 1 
Come ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !" 

So this morn, in the midst of the Psalm, 
The Miss Siffkins's school you must leer at ; 
You're complain'd of, sir ! hold out your palm,— 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !" 

You wilful young re'oel and dunce ! 
This offence all your sins shall appear at^ 
You shall have a good caning at once,— 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

You are backward, you know, in each verb, 
And your pronouns you are not more clear at, 

* Comic Annual, 1 831. 



590 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO. 

But you're forward enough to disturb- 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

You said Master Twigg stole the pluras, 
When the orchard he never was near at ; 
I'll not punish wrong fingers or tliumbs,— 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

You make Master Taylor your butt, 
And this morning his face you threw beer at. 
And you struck him — Ao you like a cut ? 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

Little Biddle you likewise distress, 
You are always his hair or his ear at ; 
He's my Opt, sir, and you are my Pess, — 
There ! — " Pahnam qui meruit ferat ! " 

Then you had a pitch'd fight with young Rou% 
An offence I am always severe at, 
You discredit to Cicero-House ! 
There ! — " P.ilmam qui meruit ferat ! ** 

You have made, too, a plot in the night, 
To run off from the school that you rear at ! 
Come, your other hand, now, sir, — the right, 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

I'll teach you to draw, you young dog! 
Such pictures as I'm looking here at ! 
*• Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,"— 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !" 

You have run up a bill at a shop, 
That in paying you'll be a whole year at ; 
You've but twopence a week, sir, to stop ! 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

Then at dinner you're quite cock-a-hoop, 
And the soup you are certain to sneer at ; 
I have sipp'd it — it's very good soup, — 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

T'other day, when I fell o'er the form, 
Was my tumble a thing, sir, to cheer at? 
Well for you that my temper's not warm,— 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat ! " 

Why, you rascal ! you insolent brat ! 
All my talking you don't ■^lied a tear at ; 
There — take that, sir ! and that ! that! and that 
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !" 



591 




A Misguided Man. 



A BLIND MAN* 

IS a blackamoor turned outside in. His skin is fait", but his lining 
is utter dark ; his eyes are like shotten stars, — mere jellies ; of 
like mock-painted windows since the tax upon davlight : what his 
mmd's eye can be is yet a mystery with the learned, or if he hath a 
mental capacity at all — for, " out of sight is out of mind." 

Wherever he stands he is antipodean, with his midnight to your 
noon. The brightest sunshine serves only to make him the gloomier 
object, like a dark house at a general illumination. When he stirs, it 
is like a Venetian blind, being pulled up and down by a string ; he is 
a human kettle tied to a dog's tail, and with much of the same tin 
twang in his tone. With botanists he is a species of solanum, or night- 
shade, whereof the berries are in his eyes ; — amongst painters he is 
only contemned for his ignorance of cLire-obscure ; but by musicians 
marvelled at for playing, ante-sight, on an invisible fiddle. He stands 
against a wall with his two blank orbs like a figure in high relief, how- 
beit but seldom relieved ; and though he is fond of getting pence, yet 
he is confessedly blind to his own interest. 

In his religion he is a materiahst, putting no faith but in thin'-;s 
palpable; in politics, no visionary; in his learning a smatterer, his 

• Comic Annual, 1831. 



592 



THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 



knowledge of all being superficial ; in his age a child, being yet in 
leading-strings ; in his life immortal, for death may lengthen his night, 
but can put no end to his days ; in his courage heroic, for he winks at 
no danger ; in his pretensions humble, confessing that he is nothing, 
even in his own eyes ; in his malady hopeless, for eyes of lookirtg- 
gl.iss would not help him to see. To conclude, he is pitied by the 
rich, relieved by the poor, oppressed by the beadle, and horsewhipped 
by the fox-hunter for not giving the view hoUa I 




•' Be to their faults a little blind" 



THE SUPPER superstition: 

A PATHETIC BALLAD.* 
"O flesh, flesh I how art thou fishified I "— MKRCDTia 



IV. 



TwAS twelve o'clock by Chelsea 
chimes, 

Wlien, all in hungry trim, 
Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup, 

With wife, and Kate, and Jim. 

n. 

Saifl he, " Upon this dainty cod 
How bravely I shall sup," — 

When, whiter than the tablecloth, 
A GHOST came rising up I 

III. 
" O father dear ! O mother dear! 

Dear Kate, and brother Jim 1 
You know when some one went to 
sea, — 
Don't cry — but I am him 1 

• Comic An 



" You hope some day with fond «»■ 
brace 

To greet your absent Jack, 
But oh, I am come here to say 

I'm never coming back I 

V. 

••From Alexandria we set sail, 
With corn, and oil, and figs. 

But steering * too much Sow,' w« 
struck 
Upon the Sow and Pigs I 

VI. 

**The ship we pump'd till we could see 
Old P'ngland from the tops, 

When down she went with all our 
hands. 
Right m the Channel's Chops. 

1 83 1. 



THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 



593 



"Just give a look in Norey's chart, 

The very place it tells ; 
I tliink it says twelve fathom deep> 

Clay bottom, mix'd with shells. 

VIII. 
" Well, there ^e are till * hands aloft, 

We have at last a call ; 
The pug I had for brother Jim, 

Kate's parrot too, and alL 



" But oh, my spirit cannot rest 

In Davy Jones's sod, 
Till I've appear'd to you and said,— 

Don't sup on that 'ere cod 1 



" Vou live on land, and little think 

What passes in the sea ; 
Last Sunday week, at two P.M., 

That cod was picking me i 



XI. 
oysters too. 



that look so 



" Those 
plump, 

And seem so nicely done, 
They put my corpse in many shells, 

Instead of only one. 



XII. 



' Oh, do not eat those oysters then. 
And do not touch the shrimps ; 



When I was in my briny grave, 
They suck'd my blood like imps ! 

XIII. 

*' Don't eat what brutes would never 
eat — 
The brutes I used to pat. 
They'll know the smell they used to 
smell. 
Just try the dog and cat ! " 



The spirit fled — they wept his fate, 
And cried, " Alack, alack ! " 

At last up started brother Jim, — 
" Let's try if Jack was Jack i " 



They call'd the dog, they call'd the 
cat, 
And httle kitten too, 
And down they put the cod and 
sauce, 
I'o see what brutes would do. 

XVI. 

Old Tray lick'd all the oysters up, 
Puss never stood at crimps, 

But niunch'd the cod, — and little Kit 
Quite feasted on the shrimps 1 

XVII. 
The thing was odd, and minus cod 

And sauce, they stood like posts ; 
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoajL, 

Put no belief in ghosts 1 




Vhcads awaiting a Sailor's return. 



a p 



594 




The Boa after a MeaL 



A SNAKE-SNACK* 

"Twist ye, twine ye." — SiR W. ScoTT. 

IT was my pfood fortune once, at Charing Cross, to witness tTie feed- 
ing of the boa constrictor — rather a rare occurrence, and difficult of 
observation, the reptile not being remarkable for the regularity of its 
dinner-hour ; and a very considerable interval intervenes, as the world 
knows, between Gorge the First and Gorge the Second, Gor^'e the 
Third and Gorge the Fourth. I was not in time to see the serpent's 
first dart at the prey ; she had already twisted herself round her 
victim, — a living white rabbit, — who with a large dark eye gazed 
piteously through one of the folds, and looked most eloquently that 
line in Hamlet — 

" Oh, could I shuffle off this mortal coill" 

The snake evidently only embraced him in a kill-him-when-I-want-him 
manner, just firmly enough to prevent an escape, — but her lips were 
glued on his in a close " Judas' kiss." So long a time elapsed in this 
position, both as marble-still as poor old Laocoon with his leeches on, 
that I really began to doubt the tale of the boa's ability in swallowing, 
and to associate the hoax before me with that of the bottle-conjuror. 
The head of the snake, in fact, might have gone without difficulty into 
a wine-glass, and the liiroat, down which the rabbit was to proceed 
whole, seemed not at all thicker than my thumb. In short, I thought 
the reported cram vvas nothing but stuff, and the only other visitor 
declared himself of my opinion : " If that 'ere little wiper swallows 
up the rabbit, I'll bolt um both ! " and he seemed capable of the leaL 
• Comic Annual, 1831. 



A SNAKE.SNACIC, 



595 



He looked like a personification of what political economists call the 
Public Consumer, or Geoffrey Crayon's Stout Gentleman, seen throui;h 
Carpenter's solar microscope — a genuine Edax Rerum ; one of your 
devourers of legs of mutton and trimmings for wagers, the delight of 
eating-houses, and the dread of ordinaries. The contrast was whimsical 
between his mountain of mummy and the slim Maccarom figure of the 
snake, the reputed glutton. However, the boa began at last to prepare 
for the meal by lubricating the muzzle of the rabbit with her slimy 
tongue, and then commenced in earnest — 

*' As far as in her lay to take him in, 
A stranger dying with so fair a skin." 

The process was tedious — "one swallow makes a summer," but it 
gradually became apparent, from the fnte of the head, that the whole 
body might eventually " be lost in the Serpentine." The reptile, indeed, 
made ready for the rest of the interment by an operation rather 
horrible. On a sudden, the living cable was observed, as a sailor 
would say, to haul in her slack, and with a squeeze evincing tremendous 
muscular power, she reduced the whole body into a compass that 
would follow the head with perfect ease. It was like a regular smash 
in business ; — the poor rabbit was completely broken — and the wily 
winder-up of his aft'airs recommenced paying herself in full. It was a 
sorry sight and sickening. As for the stout gentleman, he could not 
control his agitation. His eyes rolled and watered, his jaws constantly 
yawned like a panther's, and his hands with a convulsive movement 
were clasped every now and then on his stomach; — but when the 
whole ral)bit was smothered in snake, he could restrain himself no 
longer, and rushed out of the menagerie as if he really expected to be 
called upon to fulfil his rash engagement. Anxious to ascertain the 
true nature of the impulse, I hurried in pursuit of him, and after a 
short but sharp chase, I saw him dash into the British Hotel, and 
overheard his familiar voice — the same that had promised to swallow 
both snake and snack— bellowing out, guttural with hunger — " Here ! 
waiter 1 quick 1 Rabbits in onions for two ! " 




The Grcai .Sea-berpeni discovered from the Mast-HeaA 




jLa Abridgement of all that is Pleasant in Ma 



A STORM AT HASTINGS, 

AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.* 

TwAS August ! — Hastings every day was filling- 
Hastings, that "greenest spot on memory's waste I** 
With crowds of idlers, willing or unwilling 
To be bedipp'd — be noticed — or be braced, 
And all things rose a penny in a shilling. 
Meanwhile, from window, and from door, in hastC 
" Accommodation bills " kept coming down, 
Gladding " the world of letters" in that town. 

Each day pour'd in new coachfuls of new cits, 

Flying from London smoke and dust annoymg,— 

Unmarried misses hoping to make hits, 

And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbrid>;e toying;— 

Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits, 

And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying 

A morning's reading by the ocean's rim, 

That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim. 

And lo ! amongst all these appear'd a creature, 
So small, he almost might a twin have been 
With Miss Crachami — dwarfish quite in statur^ 
Yet well proportion'd — neither fat nor lean. 
His face of marvellously pleasant fe Uure,— 
So short and sweet a man was never seen :— 
* Comic Annual, I<S30. 



A ^TORM A T HASTINGS. 

All thought him charming at the first beginning- 
Alas ! ere long they found him far too winning 1 

He seem'd in love with Chance — and Chance repaid 

His ardent passion with her fondest smile, 

The sunshine of good luck: without a shade 

He staked and won, and won and staked ; — the bile 

It stirr'd of many a man and many a maid 

To see at every venture how that vile 

Small gambler snatch'd — and how he won them too— 

A living Pam, omnipotent at loo 1 



J9? 




A Tide- Waiter. 



Miss Wigcrins set her heart upon a box, 

Twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass. 

And dreamt three times she gnrnish'd it with stocks 

Of needles, silks, and cottons — but alas ! 

She lost it wide awake. — We thou5,'ht Miss Cox 

Was lucky — but she saw three caddies pass 

To that small imp ; — no living luck could loo him! 

Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him ! 

And so he cHmb'd, and rode, and won, and walk'd, 

The wondrous topic of the curious swarm 

That haunted the Parade. Many were balk'd 

Of notoriety by that small form 

Pacing it up and down ; — some even talFd 

Of ducking him — when lo ! a dismal sturm 



$9B A STORM A T HASTINGS. 

Stepp'd in — one Friday, at the close of day— 
And every head was turn'd another way — 

Watching the grander guest. It seem'd to rise 

Bulky and slow upon the southern' brink 

Of the horizon— fann'd by sultry sighs— 

So black ;ind threatening, I cannot think 

Of any simile, except the skies 

Miss Wiggins sometime shades in Indian-ink ;— 

J/m-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour, 

They seem a deal more solid than her paper. 

As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave, 
And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on 
The stony-hearted beach ;— some bards would have 
It always rampant in that idle fashion, — 
Whereas the waves roU'd in, subdued and grave. 
Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion. 
Who meekly settle in and take their places, 
With a very quiet awe on all their faces. 

Some love to draw the ocean with a head, 
Like troubled tible-beer, — and make it bounce, 
And froth, and roar, and fling, — but this, I've said, 
Surged in scarce rougher than a lad\'s flounce;— 
But then, a grander contrast thus it bred 
With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce 
Something more awful in the serious ear, 
As one would whisper that a lion's near — 

Who just begins to roar : so the hoarse thunder 
Growl'd loni,^ but low — a prelude note of death. 
As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under, 
But still it mutter'd to the sea beneath 
Such a continued pe.d, as made us wonder 
It did not pause more oft to take its breath. 
Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather, 
^nd hardly cared to wed two words together, 

Rut wa.tch'd the surly advent of the storm, 
Much as the brown-cheek'd planters of Barbadoei 
Must watch a rising of the Negro s\varm. 
Meantime it steer'd, like Odin's old armadas, 
Right on our coast ; — a dismal, coal-black form ;— 
Many proud gaits were quell'd — and all bravadoe* 
Of folly ceased — and sundry idle jokers 
Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers. 

So fierce the lightning flash'd, — in all their days 
The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing. 
And they are u^ed to many a prettv blaze. 
To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing 



A STORM A T HASTINGS. $99 

With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays ; — 
And truly one could think, wiiiiout mucli lashing 
The fancy, that those coasting clouds, so awful 
And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawfuL 

The gny Parade grew thin — all the fair crowd 
Vanish'd — as if they knew their own attractions, — 
For now the lightning through a near-hand cloud 
Began to make some very crooked fractions ; — 
Only some lew remain'd that were not cow'd, 
A few rouyh sailors, who had been in actions, 
And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's. 
Lest it should blow, — were pulling up the ^^ Rose"— 

(No flower, but a boat); — some more were hauling 
The '''Regent" by the head ; — another crew, 
With that same cry peculiar to their cailing. 
Were heaving up the '''' Hope :'' — and as they knew 
The very gods themselves oft get a mauling 
In their own realms, the seamen wisely drew 
The '"'•Neptune'" rather higher on the beach. 
That he might lie beyond his billows' reach. 

And now the storm with its despotic power 
Had all usurp'd the azure of the skies, 
Making our daylight darker by an hour, 
And some few drops — of an unusual size — 
Few and distinct — scarce twenty to the shower. 
Fell like huge teardrops from a gianfs eyes ;— 
But then this sprinkle thicken'd in a trice 
And rain'd much harder — in good solid ice. 

Oh, for a very storm of words to show 
How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er usf 
Handel would make the gusty organs blow 
Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us ;— 
But even his music seem'd composed and low. 
When we were handled by this hailstone chorus ; 
Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound, 
And frozen comfits roUd along the ground — 

As big as bullets : — Lord ! how they did batter 
Our crazy tiles. And now the lightning flash'd 
Alternate with the dark, until the latter 
Was rarest of the two ; — the gust, too, dash'd 
So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter 
Some panes, — and so it did — and first it smash'd 
The very square where I had chose my station 
To watch the general illumination. 

Another, and another, still came in. 
And fell in jingling ruin at my feet, 



Coo A STORM A T HASTINGS. 

Making transparent holes that let me win 

Some samples of the storm. Oh, it was sweet 

To think I had a shelter for my skin, 

Culling them throuj^h these "loopholes of retreat,* 

W hich in a little we began to glaze — 

Chiefly with a jack-towel and some baize ! 

By which the cloud had pass'd o'erhead, bu» play'd 

Its crooked fires in constant flashes still, 

Just in our rear, as though it had array'd 

Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill, 

So that it lit the town, and grandly made 

The ru<;gt d features of the Castle Hill 

Leap, like a buth, from chaos into light, 

And then relapse into the gloomy night— 

As parcel of the cloud ; — the clouds themselves^ 
Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, 
Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves. 
That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting;— 
We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves 
Busy upon those crags, and ever casting 
Huge fragments loose, and that weyi"// the sound 
They made in falling to the startled ground. 

And so the tempest scowl'd away, — and soon, 
Timidly shining through its skirts of jet, 
We saw the rim of the pacific moon, 
Like a bright fish entangled in a net. 
Flashing its silver side, — how sweet a boon 
Seem'd her sweet light, as though it would beget, 
With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas — 
Peace in the sky — and coolness in the breeze! 

Meantime the hail had ceased, — and all the brood 
Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains ; — 
At every window there were maids who stood 
Lamenting o'er tiie glass's small remains, 
Or with coarse linens made the fractions good, 
Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes,— 
Or holding candles to the panes in doubt : 
The wind, resolved — blowing the candles out. 

No house was whole that had a southern front,— 
No greenhouse but the same misiiap befell ; — 
^(?w-windo.\s and ^^//-glasses bore the brunt, — 

No sex in glass w.is spared ! For those who dwell 

On each hill:>ide, you might have swamp d a punt 
In any of their parlours ; — Mrs Snell 
Was slopp'd out of her seat, — and Mr Hitchin 
Had a^(?«/^r-gardeta wash'd into a kitchen. 



A STORM A T HASTINGS. ftn 

But still the sea was wild, and quite disclaimed 
The recent violence. Each after each 
The gentle waves a gentle murmur framed, 
Tapping, like woodpeckers, the lioUow beach. 
Howbeit his iveather-eye the seaman aim'd 
Across the calm, and hinted by his speech 
A gale next morning — and when morning brok^ 
There was a gale — " quite equal to bespoke." 

Before high water — (it were better far 
To christen it not water then, but waiter^ 
For then the tide is serving at the bar) — 
Rose such a swell — I never saw one greater t 
Black, ja^'ged billows rearin;^ up in war 
Like ra^^ged roaring bears against the baiter. 
With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, 
Like stout pour'd out with a fine beachy head. 

No open boat was open to a fare, 
Or launch'd that morn on seven-shilling trips ; 
No bathing woman waded — none would dare 
A dipping in the wave — but waived their dips; 
No seagull ventured on the stormy air, 
And all the dreary coast was clear of ships ; 
For two lea shores upon the river Lea 
Are not so perilous as one at sea. 

Awestruck we sat, and gazed upon the scene 
Before us in such horrid hurlyburly, — 
A boiling ocean of mix'd black and green, 
A sky of copper colour, grim and surly, — 
W hen lo ! in that vast hollow scoop'd between 
Two rolling alps of water, white and curly, 
We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming, 
Much like a first or last attempt at swimming | 

Sometimes a hand — sometimes a little shoe — 
Sometimes a skirt — sometimes a hank of hair, 
Just like a dabbled seaweed, rose to view, — 
Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare— • 
At last a frightful summerset he threw 
Right on the shingles. Any one could swear 
The lad was dead, without a chance of perjury, 
And batter'd by the surge beyond all surgery ! 

However, we snatch'd up the corse thus thrown, 
Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, 
And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, 
Then Curiosity began with her fit ; 



Sos A STORM A T HASTINGS, 

And lo I the features of the Small Unknown ! 
'Twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit ! 
And in his foU, the cause of late monopolies, 
We found a contract signed '' Mephisiopheles 1* 

A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave 

His forfeit soul to Sat in in reversion, 

Providing in this world he was to have 

A lordship over luck, by whose exertion 

He might control the course of cards, and brave 

All throws of dice,— but on a sea-excursion 

The juggling demon, in his usual vein. 

Seized the last cast — and Aick'd him in the main I 




, Uom Uccaa rkiog;! 



603 




Kctching itj Prey. 



LINES 



fO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.* 

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, 
And tempests make a soda-water sea, 
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly, 

And think of me ! 

Go where the mild Madeira ripens ^,?r juice,— 
A wine more praised than it deserves to be 1 
Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, 
And think of me 1 

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth, 
Making a midnight me.tl of he and she ; 
Go where the lion in his hunger howleth, 

And think of met 

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, 
Or lies along at full length like a tree ; 
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, 
And think of me i 

* Comic Annual, 1830. 



6o4 LINES. 

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth 
In mono-/5^//j/-logue with tongue as free, 
And, like a woman, all she can revealeth, 

And think of me 1 

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, 
And parasols of straw where hats should be ; 
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, 
And think of me I 

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills 
And tall bamboos — may none bamboozle thee I 
Go gaze upon their elephants and castles, 

And think of me I 

Go where a cook must always be a currier, 
And parch the pepperd palate like a pea; 
Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier, 

And think of me I 

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, 
Consign'd for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, 
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoe^ 
And think of me 1 

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, 
Go to the land of paged and rupee. 
Where every black will be your slave and servant. 
And think of me 1 




A So v\ -we^iier off tlie Cape :— Pigs ia the Trough of the Sl^ 



60S 




Tbe Stamp-duty on Scotch Linen. 



SONNET 

to k SCOTCH OIRL, WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY rASHIOM. 

Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth ! 
Thou rankest a washing picture well deserving 
The pen and pencilling of Washington Irving: 

Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth, 

Dashing about the water of the Firth, 
To cleanse the calico of Mrs Skirving, 
And never from thy dance of duty swerving, 

As there were nothing else than dirt on earth 1 

Yet what is thy reward ? Nay, do not start 1 
I do not mean to give thee a new damper j 

But while thou fillest this industrious part ' 

Of washer, wearer, mangier, presser, stamper, 

Deserving better character — thou art 

fihaX Bodkin would but call — " a common tramper.* 

* Comic Annual, 1S31. 



6o6 




The lup ut hl^ i'lofession. 



SONNET TO A DECAYED SEAMAN.* 

Hail ! seventy-four cut down ! — Hail ! Top and Lop 

Unless I'm much mistaken in my notion, 
Thou wast a stirring tar, before that hop 

Became so fatal to thy locomotion : — 
Kow, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean, 

Thou readest still to men a lesson good, 
To king and country showing thy devotion. 

By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood 1 
Still is thy spirit strong as alcohol ; 

Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg, 
Methinks — thou naval history in one vol.— 

A virtue shines, e'en in that timber leg ; 
For, unlike others that desert their Poll, 

Tliou walkest ever with thy " Constant Pegl*^ 

* Comic Annual, 183 1. 



6o7 



HUGGINS AND DUGGINS, 

A PASTORAL AFTER POPE.* 

Two swains or clowns — but call them swain*— 

While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,— 

For all that tend on sheep as drovers 

Are turn'd to songsters or to lovers,— 

Each of the lass he call'd his dear 

Began to carol loud and clear. 

First Huggins sang, and Duggins then, 

In the way of ancient shepherd men ; 

Who thus alternate hitch'd in song, 

**A11 things by turns, and nothing long." 

HUGGINS. 

Of all the girls about our place, 
There's one beats all in form and face ; 
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead, 
You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead. 

DUGGINS. 

To gToves and streams I tell my flame, 
I make the cliffs repeat her name : 
When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, 
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins 1 

HUGGINS. 

When I am walking in the grove, 
I thmk of Peggy as I rove : 
I'd carve her name on every tree. 
But I don't know my A, B, C 

DUGGINS. 

Whether I walk in hill or valley, 
I think of nothing else but Sally : 
I'd sing her praise, but 1 can smg 
No song, except " God save the King,* 

HUGGINS. 

My Peggy does all nymphs excel, 
And all confess she bears the bell ; 
Where'er she goes swains flock together^ 
Like sheep that follow the bellwether. 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



eo8 



HUG GINS AND DUG GINS. 



PUGGINS. 

Sally is tall and not too straight,— 
Those very poplar shnpes I hate ; 
But something twisted like an S,— 
A crook becomes a shepherdess. 

HUGGINS. 

When Peggy's dog her arms emprison, 
I often wish my lot «as hisn ; 
How often I should st.md and turn, 
To get a pat from hands like hern. 

DUGGFNS. 

I tell Sail's lambs ho^v blest they be, 

To stnnd about and stare at she ; 

But when I look, she turns and shies, 

And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes I 




Follow my Leader. 



hugg:ns. 

Love goes with Pegjy where she goes,— 
Beneath her smile the garden grows, 
Potatoes spring, and cai^ba-^t- starts, 
'Taloes have eyes, and c.ibbage hearts ! 



HUGGINS AND DUGGINS, 

DUGGINS. 

Where Sally jjoes it's always Spring, 
Her presence brightens everything ; 
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is, 
It makes brass farthings look like guineas. 

HUGGINS. 

For Peggy I can have no joy, 
She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, 
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, 
As comfortless as sheep with ticks. 

DUGGINS. 

Sally is ripe as June or May, 
And yet as cold as Christmas Day ; 
For when she's ask'd to change her lot, 
Lamb's wool, — but Sally, she wool not 

HUGGINS. 

Only with Peggy and with health, 
I'd never wish for state or wealth ; 
Talking of having health and more pence^ 
I'd drink her health if I had lourpence. 

DUGGINS. 

Oh, how that day would seem to shine. 
If Sally's banns were read with mine ; 
She cries, when such a wish I carry, 
** Marry come up !" but will not marry. 




Kjua^ay'b Ceaile biicplierd. 



6io 



DOMESTIC DIDACTICS, 

BY AN OLD SERVANT.* 

IT is not often, when the Nine descend, that they go sotow as mta 
arens ; it is certain, neverth^'Iess, that they \v(_re in the ha))it o' 
visiting John Mumphieys, in the kitciien of No. 189 Portland Place, 
disguised, no doubt, from mortal eye, as seamstresses or charwomen 
■ — at all events, as Winifred Jenkins says, '' they were never ketclid in 
the fact." Perhaps it was the rule of the house to allow no followers, and 
they were obliged to come by stealth, and to go in the same manner ; 
indeed, from the fraginental nature of John's verses, they appear to 
have often left him very abruptly. Other pieces bear witness of the 
severe distraction he suffered between his domestic (Juty to the Umphra- 
villes, twelve in fnnily, with their guests, and his <;wn serret visitors 
from Helicon. It must have been provoking, when seeking for a 




Not up yet I 

gimile, to be sent in search of a salt-cellar ; or when hunting for a 

rhyme, to have to look for a missin;.; teaspoon. By a whimsical 

leculiarity, the causes of these lets and hindrances are recorded in 

is verses by way of parenthesis : and though John's poetry was of a 

• Comic Annual, 1S32. 



I 



DOMESTIC DIDACTICS. «I1 

decidedly serious and moralising turn, these little insertions give it so 
whimsical a character as to make it an appropriate offering in the 
present work. Poor John ! the grave has put a period to liis didactics, 
and the pubhcntion of his lays, therefore, cannot give him pain, as 
it certainly would have done otherwise, for the MSS. were left by 
last will and testament "to his very worthy master, Joshua Umph- 
r.iville, Esq.. to l)e printed in Elegant Extracts or Flowers of English 
Poetry." The editor is indebted to the kindness of that gentleman 
for a selection from the papers, which he has been unable to arrange 
chronologically, as John always wrote in too great a hurry to put 
dates. Whether he ever sent any pieces to the periodicals is unknown, 
for he kept his authorship as secret as Junius's till his death disco- 
vered his propensity for poetry, and happily cleared up some points 
in John's character which had appeared to his disadvantage. Thus, 
when his eye was " in fine frenzy rolling," bcmu?ed only with Casta- 
lian water, he had been suspected of being "bemused with beer;" 
and when he was supposed to indulge in a morning slugi;ishncss, 
he was really rising with the sun, at least with Apollo. He was 
accused occasionally of shamming deafness, whereas it wns doubtless 
nothing but the natural difficulty of he ring more than Nine at once. 
Above all, he was reckoned almost wilfully unfortunate in his break- 
age ; but it appears that when deductions for damage were made from 
his wages, the poetry ought to have been stooped, and not the money. 
The truth is, John's master was a classical scholar, and so accus- 
tomed to read of Pegasus, and to associate a poet with a horseman, that 
he never dreamt of one as a footman. 

The editor is too diffident to volunteer an elaborate crifibism of the 
merits of Humphreys as a bard, but he presumes to say this much, 
that there are several authors of the present day whom John ought not 
to walk behind. 

THE BROKEN DISH. 

What's life but full of care and doubt, 

With all its fine humanities ; 
With parasols we walk about. 

Long pigtails and such vaiiities. 

We plant pomegranate trees and things, 

And go in gaidens s.-orting. 
With toys and fans of peacocks' wings 

To painted ladies courting. 

We gather flowers of evcrv hue, 

And fish in boats for fishes, 
Build summer-houses painted blue,— 

Ijut life's as frail as dishes. 

Walking about their groves of trees, 

Blue brid:4es and blue rivers. 
How little thought them two Chinese 

They'd both be siuabh'd to shivers. 



•la DOMESTIC DIDACTICS, 

ODE TO PEACE. 

WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS'S GRAND ROUT. 

O Peace ! oh come with me and dwell — 
But stop, for there's the bell. 

O Peace ! for thee I go and sit in churches, 
On Wednesday, when there's very few 
In loft or pew — 

Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch s. 

O Peace ! for thee I have avoided marriage- 
Hush ! there's a carriage. 

O Peace ! thou art the best of earthly goods— 
The five Miss Woods. 

O Peace ! thou art the goddess I adore — 
There come some more. 

O Peace ! thou child of solitude and quiet— 

That's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot, 

O Peace ! — 
Knocks will not cease. 

O Peace ! thou wert for human comfort plann'd— 
That's Weippert's band. 

O Peace I how glad I welcome thy approaches— 
I hear the sound of coaches. 

O Peace ! O Peace ! — another carriage stops- 
It's early for the Blenkinsops. 

O Peace ! with thee I love to wander, 

But wait till I have show'd up Lady Squander ; 

And now I've seen her up the stair, 

O Peace! — but here comes Captain Hare, 

O Peace ! thou art the slumber of the mind, 

Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken—* 

If that is Alderman Guzzle from Portsoken, 

Alderman Gobble won't be far behind. 

O Peace ! serene in worldly shyness — 

Make way there for his Serene Highness! 

Peace ! if you do not disdain 
To dwell amongst the menial train, 

1 have a silent place, and lone. 
That you and I may call our own, 
Where tumult never makes an entry- 
Susan, what business have you in my pantry? 

O Peace ! — but there is Major Monk, 
At variance with his wife. O Peace ! — 
And that great German, Vander Trunk, 
And that great talker. Miss Aprcece. 



DOMESTIC DIDACTICS, Ci] 

O Peace ! so dear to poets' quills— 
They re just beginning their quadrilles. 

Peace ! our greatest renovator — 

1 wonder where I put my waiter. 

Peace ! — but here my ode I'll cease : 

1 have no peace to write of Peace. 



A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN. 

When I reflect, with serious sense, 

While years and years run on, 
How soon I may be suqimon'd hence— 

There's cook a-callin^ John. 

■ Our lives are built so frail and poor, 
On sand, and not on rocks. 
We're hourly standing at Death's door— 
There's some one double-knocks. 

All human days have settled terms, 

Our fates we cannot force ; 
This flesh of mine will. feed the worra»— 

They're come to lunch, of course. 

And when my body's turn'd to clay. 

And dear friends hear my knell, 
Oh, let them give a sigh and say— 

I hear the upstairs bell. 



TO MARY HOUSEMAID, 
ON valentine's day. 

Mary, you know I've no love-nonsense, 
And, though I pen on such a day, 

I don't mean flirting, on my conscience, 
Or writing in the courting way. 

Though Beauty hasn't form'd your feature, 
It saves you, p'rhaps, from being vain, 

And many a poor unhappy creature 
May wish that she was half as plain. 

Your virtues would not rise an inch, 

Althou^i^h your shar3e was two foot taller. 

And wisely you let others pinch 

Great waists and feet to make them smaller. 

You never try to spare your hands 
From getting red by household duty, 



6f« 



PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT, 

But, doing all that it commands, 
Their coarseness is a moral beauty. 

Let Susan flourish her fair arms, 

And at your odd legs sneer and scoff; 

But let her laugh, for you have charms 
That nobody knows nothing of. 







What odd legs I 



FA/JV IN A PLEASURE-BOAT, 

A SEA ECLOGUE* 
*• I ^tprehend you I " — School o/ReJorm. 

Boatman. 
Shove off there ! — ship the rudder, Bill — cast off! she's under way I 

Mrs F. 
She's under what? — I hope she's not! — good gracious, what a spray I 

Boatman. 
Run out the jib, and rig the boom ! — keep clear of those two brigs 1 

Mrs F. 
I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs! 

Boatman. 
Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim I 

Mrs F. 
Great bags of stones ! they're pretty things to help a boat to swim I 

• Comic Annual, 1831. 



PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT, 

Boatman. 
The wind Is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault ! 

Mrs F. 
Wind fresh, indeed ! I never felt the air so full of salt ! 

Boatman. 
That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts I 

"8 Mrs F. 

If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts 1 



6i8 




See-view : — Broad Starci. 

Boatman. 
It's neap, ye see ; she's heavy lade, and couldn't pass the bar. 

Mrs F. 
The bar ! what, roads with turnpikes too? — I wonder where they are 1 

Boatman. 
Ho ! brig alioy ! hard up ! hard up !— that lubber cannot steer ! 



6l6 PAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT, 

Mrs F. 

Yes, yes f hard up upon a rock ! I know some dnnger's near! 
Lord ! there's a wave ! — it's coming in ! and roaring like a bull f 

Boatman. 
Nothing, ma'am, but a little slop ! — go large, Bill ! keep her full I 

Mrs F. 

What ! keep her full ! — what daring work ! when full, she must go 
down ! 

Boatman. 

Why, Bill, it lull? ! ease off a bit — it's coming off the town ! 
Steady your helm ! we'll clear the Pint ! lay right for yonder pink I 

Mrs F. 
Be steady ! well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of drink ! 

Boatman. 
Bill, give that sheet another haul— she'll fetch it up this reach, 

Mrs F. 

I'm cretting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech I 

I wonder what it is, now, but 1 never felt so queer 1 ^ 

Boatman. 
Bill, mind your luff— why, Bill, I say, she's yawing — keep her near I 

Mrs F. 
Keep near ! we're going farther off ; the land's behind our backs. 

Boatman. 

Be easy, ma'am, it's all correct ; that's only 'cause we tacks : 
We shall have to beat about a bit ; — Bill, keep her out to sea. 

Mrs F. 
Beat who about ? keep who at sea ? — how black they look at me ! 

Boatman. 
It's veering round — I knew it would ! — ofif with her head ! stand by ! 

Mrs F. 

Off with her head ! — whose ? where .'' what with ? — an axe I seem t« 
spy! 



FAIN IN A PLEASURE-BOAT* 



617 



Boatman. 
She can't not keep her own, you see ; we shall have to pull her in I 

Mrs F. 
They'll drown me, and take all I have ! my life's not worth a pin I 

Boatman. 
Look out, you know ; be ready, Bill — just when she takes the sand I 

Mrs F. 
The sand I — O Lord I to stop my mouth I how every thing is plann'd I 

Boatman. 

The handspike, Bill— quick, bear a hand 1 now, ma'am, just step 
ashore ! 

Mrs F. 

What ! an't I going to be kill'd — and welter'd in my gore ? 
Well, Heaven be praised 1 but I'll not go a sailing any more 1 




Sterne's Miuuu 



6iS 




, A SPENT BALL.* 

"The flying ball."— Grav. 

A BALL !s a round, but not a perpetual round, of plensure. It 
spends itself at last, like that from the cannon's mouth ; or rather, 
like that greatest of balls, " the great globe itself," is " dissolved with 
all that it inherits." 

Four o'clock strikes. The company are all but gone, and the 
musicians "put up" with their absence. A few "y?>«r^j," however, 
remain, that have never been danced, and the hostess, who is all 
urbanity and turbanity, kindly hopes that they will stand up for "one 
set more." The six figures jum[) at the offer they "w.ike tlie harp," 
get the tiddlers into a fresh scrape, and " thi- Lancers" are put throuj^h 
their exercise. This may be called the Dance of Death, tor it ends 
everything. The band is disbanded, and the ball takes the form of a 
family circle. It is long past the time whea churchvards ya^vn. but 
the mouth of mamma onens to a bore, that ijives ho!>es of" the Thames' 
Tunnel. Papa, to when the ball has been anything but a force-meat 
one, seizes eagerly ui>on the first eatables he can catch, and with his 
mouth open and his eyes shut, declares, in the spirit of an '• Ex- 
aminer" into such things, that a " partv is the madness of m.my for 
the g.iin of a few." The son, heartily tired of a suit of broad-cloth cu/ 

• Cuniic Annual, 1830. 



LITERARY AND LITERAL. 6f$ 

narrow, nssents to the proposition, and having no further use for his 

curled head, lays it quietly on the shelf. The dau;3'hter droops ; art 
has had -tier Ahnack's. and nature establishes a free and easy.' Grace 
throws herself^ skow-wow anyhow, on an ottom m, and Goiid Breed- 
ing crosses her legs. Roses begin to relax, and curls to unbend them- 
selves ; the very candles seem released from the restraints of gentility, 
and gettmg low, some begin to smoke, while others indulge m a gutter 
Muscles and sinews feel equally let loose, and, by way of a joke, the 
cramp ties a double-knot in Clarinda's calf. 

Clarinda screams. To this appeal the maternal heTrt is more awake 
than the maternal eyes, and the maternal hand be j ins hastily to bestow 
its friction, not on the leg of suffering, but on the leg of the sofa. In 
the meantime, paternal hunger g 'ts satisfied ; he cats slower, and si eps 
faster, subsiding, like a gorged boa-constrictor, into torpidity ; and in 
this state, grasping an extinguished candle, he lights himself up to lied. 
Clarinda follows, stumbling through her steps, in a doze-a-doze ; the 
brother is next ; and mamma, having seen with half an eye, or some- 
thing less, that ,.11 is s -fe, winds up the procession. 

Every ball, however, has its rebound, and so has this in their 
dreams : — with the mother, who has a daughter, as a golden ball ; with 
the daughter, wlio has a lover, as an eyeball ; with the son, who has a 
rival, as a pistol-ball ; but with the father, who has no dreams at all| 
as nothing but the blacking-ball of oblivion. 



LITERARY AND LITERALS 

The march of Mind upon its mightv stilts 

(A spirit by no means to fasten mocks on), 

In travelling through Berks, Beds, Notts, and Wilts, 

Hants. Bucks, Herts, Oxon, 
Got up a thing our ancestors ne'er thought oa, 
A thing that only in our proper youth 
We should have chuckled at — in sober truth, 
A conversazione at Hog's Norton ! — 

A place whose native dialect, somehow, 
Has always by an ada [e been alironted, 
And that it is all guihirah is now 
Taken for grunted. 

Conceive the snoring of a greedy swine, 
The slobbering of a huni;ry ursine sloth — 
If you have ever heard such creature dine— 
And, for Hog's Norton, make a mix of both! 

O shades of Shakespeare ! Chaucer ! Spenser ! 

MUton ! Pope ! Gray ! Warton ! 
O Colman ! Kenny! Planche 1 Poole! Peakel 

Pocock! Reynolds ! Morton ! 

• Comic Annual, 183a 



tao LITERARY AND LITERAL, 

O Grey ! Peel ! Sadler ! Wilberforce ! Burdett I 

Hume ! Wilniot Horton ! 
Think of your prose and verse, and worse — deliver'd is 
Hog's Norton I 

The founder of Hog's Norton Athenaeum 

Framed her society 

With some variety 
From Mr Roscoe's Liverpool museum ; 
Not a mere picnic, for the mind's repast, 
But temptmg to the solid knife-and-forker, 
It held its sessions in the house that last 

Had kill'd a porker. 

It chanced one Friday, 
One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, 
A perfect Gog or Magog of a pig-hog, 
Which made of course a liter.iry high day ;— 
Not that our farmer was a man to go 
With literary tastes — so far from suiting 'em— 
When he heard mention of Professor Crowe^ 




*Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's self in print," 

Or LnWa- Rookk, — he always was for shooting 'em I 
In fact, in letters he was quite a log ; 

With him great Hacon 

Was literally taken, 



LITERARY AND LITERAL, 62I 

And Hogg— the poet — nothing but a hog ! 

As to all others on the list of fame, 

Although they were discuss'd and mention'd daily 

He only recognised one classic name, 

And thought that she had hung herself — Miss BaillUl 

To balance this, our farmer's only daughter 
Had a great taste for the Castalian waici"-— 
A Wordsworth worshipper — a Southey wooer— 
(Though men that deal in water-colour cakes 
May disbelieve the fact — yet nothing's truer)— 

She got the bluer 
The more she dipp'd and dabbled in the Lakes, 
The secret truth is, Hope, the old deceiver, 
At future authorship was apt to hint, 
Producing what some call the Type-us fever, 
Which means a burning to be seen in print. 

Of learning's laurels — Miss Joanna Baillie— 

Of Mrs Hemans — Mrs Wilson — daily 

Dre.imt Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley ; 

And fancy hinting that she had the better 

Of L. E. L. by one initial letter. 

She thought the world would quite enraptured see 

•* Love Lays and Lvrics 

BY 

A. P. I. G." 

Accordingly, with very great propriety, 
She joined the H. N, B. and double S.,— 
That is, Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society | 
And saving when her pa his pigs prohibited. 

Contributed 
Her pork and poetry towards the mess. 

This feast, we said, one Friday was the case, 
When Farmer Grayley — from Macbeth to quotes 
Screwing his courage to the " sticking place," 
Stuck a large knife into a grunter's throat; — 
A kind of murder that the law's rebuke 
Seldom condemns by shake of its peruke, 
Showing the little sxmpathy of big-wigs 
With pig-wigs I 

The swine — poor wretch ! — with nobody to sieak for it, 
And beg its life, resolved to have a squeak fur it ; 



622 tTTERARY AND LITERAL, 

So — like the fabled swan^-died singing out, 
And thus there issued from the farmer's yard 
A note that notified, without a card, 
An invitation to the evening rout. 

And when the time cnrae duly, — " At the close of 
The day," as Beattie has it — " when llie ham — " 
Bacon, and pork were ready to dispose of, 
And pettitoes and cliit'lings too, to cram, — 
Wallced in the H. N. B. and double S.'s, 
All in appropriate and. swinish dresses ; 
For lo !— It is a fact, and not a joke. 
Although the Muse mi,t,'ht fairly jebt upon it, — 
They came — each " Pig-faced Lady," in that bonnet 
We zTi}\'apoke* 




Breaking Up, no Holiday. 

The members all assembled thus, a rare woman 
At pork and poetry was chosen chaincoman ;—• 
In tact, the l:)luest of the blues, Miss Ikey, 
Whose whole pronunciation was so piggy, 
She always n;;med tlie authoress of "■ Fsyche^*"^ 
As Mrs Tiggeyl 

And now arose a question of some moment,— 

What author for a lecture was the richer. 

Bacon or Hogg? There were no votes for Beaumont^ 

But some for Flitcher ; 
While others, with a more sagacious reasoning. 

Proposed another work, 

And thought their pork 
Would prove more relishing from Thomson's Season-ing ! 



LITERARY AND LITERAL, 

But, practised in Shakespearean readings daily,— 
O Miss Macaulay ! Shakespeare at Hog's Norton 1- 
Miss Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley 
Selected him that evening to snort on. 
In short, to make our story not a big tale, 

Just fancy her exerting 

Her talents, and converting 
The " Winter's Tale " to something like a pig- tale I 

Her sister auditory, 
All sitting round, with grave and learned faces, 

Were very plauditory, 
Of course, and clapp'd her at the proper places ; 
Till, fann'd at once by Fortune and the liluse. 
She thought herself the blessedest of blues. 
But happiness, alas ! has bli-;hts of ill. 
And pleasure's bubbles in the air explode ;— 
There is no travelling through li'e but still 
The heart will meet with breakers on the road ! 

With that peculiar voice 
Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and nose% 
Miss G., with Perdita, was making choice 
Of buds and blossoms for her summer posies, 
When, coming to that line where Prosperine 
Lets fall her flowers from the wain of Dis ; 

Imagine this — 
Uprose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, 
Grunting this question for the club's dii^estion, 
**Do Di£s Waggon go from the Quid Baaley?* 



623 




6a4 




Dicky Bud% 



SONNET. 

TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME-BILL.* 

I'm fond of partridge?, I'm fond of snipes, 

I'm fond of blackcocks, for they're very good cocks— 

I'm fond of wild ducks, and I'm fond of woodcocks, 

And grouse, that set up such strange moorish pipes. 

I'm fond of pheasants with their splendid stripes— 

I'm fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory — 

I'm fond of capercailzies in their glory,— 

Teal, widgeons, plovers, buds in all their types; 

All these are in your care, law-giving Peer, 

And when you next address your Lordly Babel, 

Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear, 

With due and fit provision to enable 

A man that holds all kinds of game so dear 

To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table. 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



625 




An Inn-qu=st. 



THE UNDYING ONE.* 

"He shall not die." — Uncle Toby, 



Of all the verses, grave or gay, 

'1 hat ever wiled an hour, 
I never knew a m/ngled lay, 

At once so sweet and sour, 
As tliat by Ladye Norton spun, 
And christen'd " The Undying One." 



These twenty years he's been the same^ 
And may be twenty more ; 

But Memory's pleasures only claim 
His features for a score ; 

Yet in that time the change is none— 

Til' image of ih' Undying One ! 



I'm very certain that she drew 
A portrait when she penn'd 

That picture of a perfect ]t\y. 
Whose days will never end ; 

I'm sure it means my Uncle Lunn 

For he is an Undying One. 



They say our climate's, damp nn.l cold, 
And lungs are tender tJr.nys ; 

My uncle's much abroad ana old, 
But when " King Cole" he sings, 

A Slentor's voice, enough to stun, 

Declares liim an Undjing^Q«e. 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 

2 R 



636 



^^CKLE V. CACKLE. 



▼. 

Others have died from reed!e-pricks 

And very slender blows, 
From accidental slips or kicks, 

Or bleedings at the nose ; 
Or choked by grape-stone, or a bun — 
But he is the Undying One ! 



A soldier once, he once endured 

A bullet in the breast — 
It might have kill'd — but only cured 

An asthma in the chest ; 
He was not to be slain with gun, 
For he is the Undying One. ' 



He's been from strangulation black, 
From biie, of yellow hue, 

Scarlet from fever's hot attack, 
From cholera-morbus blue ; 

Yet with these dyes — to use a pun— « 

He still is the Undying One. 

X. 

He rolls in wealth, yet has no wife 
His Three per Cents to share ; 

He never married in his life. 
Or flirted with the fair ; 

The sex he made a point to shun. 

For beauty an Undying One. 



In water once too long he dived, 
And all supposed him beat. 

He seem'd so cold — but he revived 
To have another heat. 

Just when we thought his race was run, 

And came in fresh — th' Undying Onel 



To look at Meux's once he went, 
And tumbled in the vat — 

And greater Jobs their lives have 
spent 
In lesser boils than that ; — 

He left the beer quite underdone, 

No bier to the Undying One 1 



XI. 

To judge him by the present signa^ 

The future by the past. 
So quick he lives, so slow declines. 

The Last Man won't be last, 
But buried underneath a ton 
Of mould by the Undying One I 



Next Friday week, his birthday boast, 
His ninetieth year he spends, 

And I shall have his health to toast 
Amongst expectant friends. 

And wish — it really sounds like futt— • 

Long life to the Undying OuC 1 



COCKLE V. CACKLE.* 

Those who much read advertisements and bills, 
Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills, 

Call'd anti-bilioi;s — 
Which some physicians sneer at, supercilious, 
But which we are assured, if timely taken, 

May save your liver and bacon. 
Whether or not they really give one ease, 

I, who have never tried, 

Will not decide ; 
But no two things in union go like these — 
Viz., quacks and pills — save ducks and peas& 
Now Mrs W. vA'as getting sallow, 
Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow. 
And friends portended was preparing for 

A human Patd Perigord ; 

• Comic Annual, 1831. 



COCKLE V. CACKLE. ^ 

She was, indeed, so very far from well, 

Her son, in filial fear, procured a box 

Of those said pellets to resist bile's shocks. 

And — though upon the ear it strangely knocks-- 

To save her by a Cockle from a shell ! 

But Mrs W., just like Macbeth, 
Who very vehemently bids us " throw 
Bark to the bow-wows," hated physic so, 
It seem'd to share "the bitterness of Death :* 
Rhubarb— Magnesia — Jalap, and the kind — 
Senna — Steel — Assafcetida, and Squills — 
Powder or draught— but least her throat inclined 
To give a course to boluses or pills ; 
No — not to save her life, in lung or lobe, 
For all her lights' or all her liver's sake, 
Would her convulsive thorax undertake 
Only one little uncelestial globe ! 

'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, 
If she put by the pill-box in a place 
For linen rather than for drugs intended- 
Yet for the credit of the pills let's say, 

After they thus were stow'd away, 

Some of the linen mended ; 
But Mrs W., by disease's dint, 
Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, 
When lo ! her second son, like elder brother, 
Marking the hue on the parental gills, 
Brought a new charge of anti-tumeric pills. 
To bleach the jaundiced visage of his niother-- 
Who took them — in her cupboard — like the other.. 

" Deeper and deeper, still," of course. 

The fatal colour daily grew in force ; 
Till daughter W., newly come from Rome, 
Acting the self-same filial, pillial part, 
To cure mamma, another dose brought home 
Of Cockles ; — not the cockles of her heart ! 

These going where the others went before, 

Of course she had a very pretty store ; 
And then — some hue of health her cheek adorning. 

The medicine so good must be. 

They brought her dose on dose, which she 
Gave to the upstairs cupboard, " night and morning." 
Till wanting room, at last, for other stocks. 
Out of the window one fine day she pitch d 
The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd 
The feed of Mister' Burrell's hens and cocks,— 

A little barber of a bygone day, 
Over the way, 



«<8 COCKLE V. CACKLE. 

Whose stoclc in trade, to keep the least of shops, 
Was one great head of Kemble, — that is, John, 
Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, 
And twenty little bantam fowls— with crops. 

Little Dame W. thought, when through the sash 

She gave the physic wings, 

To find the very things 
So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, 
For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet ! 
But, while they gathcr'd up the nauseous nubbleSf 
Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles, 
And brought the hind of Death upon its gullet 
They might as well have addled been, or ratted, 
For long before the night — ah ! woe betide 
The pills ! — each suicidal bantam died 
Unfatted ! 

Think of poor Burrell's shock, 
Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, 
And laid in death as everhsting layers. 
With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the cock, 
In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, 
Giving, undone by Cockle, a last cackle I 
To see as stiff as stone his un'live stock, 
It really was enough to move his block. 
Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big, 
Mr Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig; 
And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, 
Burst out with natural emphasis enough. 

And voice that grief made tremble. 
Into that very speech of sad Macduff— 
"What ! ail my pretty chickens and their dam, 

At one fell swoop ! — 

Just when I'd bought a coop 
To see tlie poor lamented creatures cram 1 ** 

After a little of this mood, 
And brooding over the departed broo<^ 
With razor he began to oue each craw, 
Already turning black, as. black as coals; 
When lo ! the undigested cause he saw— 
" Pison'd by goles ! " 

To Mrs W.'s luck a contradiction. 
Her window still stood open to conviction ; 
And by short course of circumstaniial labour, 
He fix'd the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;— 
Lord ! how he raild at her : dtclai mg now, 
He d bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, 
Then, in another moment, swore a vow, 
He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory I 



COCKLE V. CACKLE. 

She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream 
Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard, 
Lapp'd in a paradise of tea and cream ; 
When up ran Betty with a dismal scream — 
*' Here's Mr Burrcll, ma'am, with all his farmyard !" 
Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, 
With all the warmth that iron and a barber 
Can harbour ; 
To dress the head and front of her offending, 
The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking; 
In short he made her pay him altogetlier, 
In hard cash, very hardiox every feather, 
Charging, of course, each bantam as a Dorking ; 
Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple; 
So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, 
Had nothing left but to sit hands across, 
And see her poultry " going down ten couple." 

Now birds by poison slain, 

As venom'd dart from Indian's hollow cane, 

Are edible ; and IMrs W.'s thrift, — 

She had a thrifty vein, — 
Destined one pair for sui'per to make shift,— 
Supper as usual at the hour of ten : 
But ten o'clock arrived and quickly pass'd, 
Eleven — twelve — and one o'clock at last, 
Without a sign of supper even then ! 
At length, the speed of cookery to quicken, 
Betty was call'd, and with reluctant feet, 

Came up at a white heat — 
"Well, never I see chicken like them chicken ! 
My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in *env 
Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, 
To flesh and bones, and perfect rags ; but drat 
Those anti-biling pills ! there is no bile in 'em ! " 



629 




Halfpenny Hatch. 



6;o 




Which way did tlie Fox go? 



LETTER FROM AN OLD SPORTSMAN* 

Dear Sir, — I receaved your's of the first last, wich I should have 
anser'd it sooner, only I have ad the Roomatiz in my fingers, so you 
must Pleas to excus my crampd hand. 

As to my Sporting; Reminis-cences, as you are pleasd to say, I have 
lookd them out in the dixenary, and kno vcrry well what it is. 1 
beg leaf to Say, I have forgot all my recolections, and can not bring to 
Mind any of my old Rememberaiices. 

As for Hunting, I shall never take a fence at it agen, altho I 
sumtims Ride to cover on the old Gray, wich is now be come quite 
Wite. The last tim I went out, we dru Hazelmere copses down to 
Broxley wood ; then we dru Broxley wood over to Fox thorp ; then 
we dru Fox thorp over to Middle ford, and then we dru Middle ford, 
in short, it was all drawing and no painting for want of a brush. 

Sir William Chase cuming to be his father's hare, he set up a coars- 
ing club, but being short of long dogs, and there hairs falling of, it was 
obleged to discourse, and is now turned into a conversasiony. ' 

In regard to shuting, I have never dun anny thing Since percussion 
Captiousness cum up, wich I am Told they are sharper then Flints. 
The last hare I kild was 2 long ears ago, and the Last fezzant, but 
theres a long tail belonging to that, wich you shall have when you 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



LETTER FROM AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



631 



cum over, as I hop you wil, with your Horse's ; I have good enter- 
tainment for boath, as the french Say, at my table D' oats. The lads 
go out after Burds now and then, but I seidum cum at the rites of 
there shuting — you kno 

Wat is Hits is Histery, 
But what is mist is mistery. 

Talking of shuting, hav you seen Ubbard's new guns like wauking 
slicks— there a cappital defence agin cappital offences ; as you may 
ether stick a feller or Shute him ; or boath together. I wish farmer 
Gale had carrid one last friday, for he was Rob'd cuming from markit 
by a foot paddy Irish man, that knockd him down to make him 
Stand. Luckiy he had nothing on him when Stopd but sum notes of 
the Barnsby bank that had bin stopd the weak afore. 

In the fishing line I am ♦ ^ j. 

quite Dead bait, tho I have 
had manny a Good run in 
my tim, Partickler when 
the keeper spide me out 
were I hadent got Leaf. 
The last tim I went I could 
hardly un do my rod for 
rt'Omatiz in my joints, and 
I got the Lumbago verry 
bad wen I cum Back, and 
its atax I doant like. Be- 
side wich I found verry 
Little big fish on a count 
of the pochers, who Kil 
em al in colde blood. I 
used sumtims to float and 
sumtims to fli, but our 
waters is so over fished 
theres no fish to be had, 
and as I am verry musicle, 
I dont like trolling with- 
out a catch, the last jack 
I caut was with my boot, 
and was only a foot long. 

As for raceing, I never 
cared much a bout it, and in rep;ard of betting, I am Better with out 
it, tho I al ways take the feeld wen I am Able, and suporc the 
Farmer's Plate with al my Mite. 

Our Wist club is going of, Some of the members go on so ; two of 
em are perpetuly quarcling like anny thin^ but double dummies, for 
one plays like Hoyle and the other like Vinegar. The young men 
hav interduced Shorts, but I doant think theyle Last long. They 
are al so verry Sharp at the Pints, and as for drinking, I never se sich 
Liquorish Chap%in my life. They are al ways laying ods, even at 
Super, when theyle Bet about the age of a Roosted foul, wich they 
cal Chicken hazzard, or about the Wait of a Curran py, wicli they cal 




Fly Fishing. 



632 



LETTER FROM AN OLD SPORTS MA 17, 



the Currancy question. They al so smoke a grate manny seagnrs, but 
they cant Put the old men's pips out, wich it Wood be a lUirning 
shame if they did. I am sorry to say politicks has Crept in ; Sum 
is al for reform, and some is al for none at al, and the only thing they 
a;4re in is, that the Land lord shant bring in no Bil. There is be sides 
grate dis-cushins as to the new game laws, sum entertaning douts 
wen sum peple go out a shuting, wether even acts of Parliament will 
inable them to shute anny game. 

Tlie crickit Club is going on uncomon wel. They are 36 members 
with out rtkoning the byes ; our best man at Wickit is Captain Batty 
— he often gets four notches running ; and our best boler is Use Ball, 
tho we sumtims get Dr Pilby to bolus. As for the crickit Hal, it is 
quit wore out, wich the gals say they are verry Sory for it, as they 
took a grate intrest in our matches. 

My lads are boath of em marred, wich mayhap you have Herd, — 
and if the gals are not, I Beleve its no fait of theres. They hope 
youle cum to the Wake, wich is next Sunday weak, for they Say there 
will be High fun, al tho I think it is Rather Low. The only use of 
waking Uiait I can See, is to pervent folkes Sleeping, and as for there 




Where's your Hawker's Licenst.- ? 

jumping and throwing up their Heals, I see no Pleasur in it. If thev 
had the Roomatiz as Bad as I have, they woiident be tor Dancing 
liiure fandangces at that rat, and Kicking for partners. 

Our county Member, Sir William Wiseacre, is goii^g to bring in a 
bil "for the supression of the Barbarus past-time of bul beating, and 
for the better incongement of the nobul art of Cockin," by wich al 



LETTER FROM AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 633 

buls, wether ini;lish or irish, are to be Made crame of no loncrcr, andal 
such as are found at anny ring' or stake are libel to be find. Tliey cal 
it here the Cock and Bui Act, wich I think is a very good name. It 
has causd grate diversion in manny peple's opinnions, but most of us 
Think the cocks is quite as Bad as the buls The same Barrownei as 
tried to interduce Forkenry, but the first atempts as been verry 
H awkward. The forkens flu at a herin, who tried to be above there 
atax, for the more they pecked him the more they maid him sore, but 
a boy flying a Kite skared em al away togither. 

Last week was our grand archery Meetin, and the first prize was 
won by Little Master Tomkins, of grove House. I supose his fondues 
for lolli pops made him amc best at bulls Eyes. The Miss Courtenays 
were there as usul, and in comparison of arch Angles look raly 
archer. — The wags propp' sed miss Emily shood have the seccond 
prize for shuting in too a cows E)e that came to nere the target ; she 
says she was so nervus, it put her arrow into a quiver. In the mid<.ile 
of the meeting we herd a B.id playd Key buggle, and out of the 
shrubbery, were they had bin hiding, Jumpd Revd. Mister Crumpe 
and asistants ; he is Rector of Bow and Curat of Harrow, and was 
disgised in every thing green, as Robin Hood and his mery Men ; 
after geting Little John to string his l:)ow for him, I am sorry to say, 
Robin Hood shot Worst of every Body, for he did not even hit the 
target, and we should have never Seen wear his arrow went, but by 
hereing it smash in to the conservatorry. When we came to look for 
the prize, a silver Arrow, every Body had lost it, for it had dropt out 
of the case, and would never have been found, but for Revd. mister 
Crumpe sittin downe on the lawne, and wich made Him jump up 
agen, as miss Courtenay said out of Byron, like " a warrior bounding 
from its Barb." The Toxnphilus Club is very flurrishing, but talk of 
expeling sum members for persisting in wereing peagreen insttd of 
lincon, and puttin on there Spanish Hats and fethers the rong side 
before. 

Thank you for the Hoisters, wich was verry good. Mary has took 
the shels to make her a groto, of wich I thinic is very shameful, as I 
wanted them to Friten the Burds. Old Mark Lane, the man as 
Cheated you out of them oats, has bean sent to jail for Stealing barly. 
I am sadly Afearde old Marks corn \vill give Hmi 14 ears of Bottanv. 

Pleas to Remember me to al inquiring friends, if they should think 
it woth wile to Ask after me. From yuur H umbel servant, 

Andrew Axeltree. 

P.S. I forgot to menshun the subskripshon Stag hounds kep by the 
same members as the wist club, and its there wim to have fiftv too 
dogs to the pack. If old Bil, the huntsman, was drest like Pam, 
theyd be complet. They have had sum cappital runs dooring the 
season. As you write for the sporting Maggazins, you may like to 
notice an npereance rather noo in the felde, I mean the Grate Creol 
Curnel Brown, who is very pompus, and hunts with Pompey, his 
black servant, after him. I have got a Deal more to Say, but'carnt 
for want of Room. Mary says I should Cros it, wich I wood, but I 
doant Wish to put you to the expense of a Dubble leter. 



«34 



THE SUB-MARINE* 



It was a brave and jolly wight, 
His cheek was baked and brown. 

For he had been in many climes 
With captains of renown, 

And fought with those who fouglit so 
well 
At Nile and Camperdown. 

His coat it was a soldier coat, 
Of red with yellow faced, 

But (merman-like") he look'd marine 
All downward from the waist — 

His trowsers were so wide and blue, 
And quite in sailor taste 1 

He put the rummer to his lips. 
And drank a jolly draught ; 

He raised the rummer many times — 
And ever as he quaff'd. 

The more he drank, the more the ship 
Scem'd pitching fore and aft ! 

The ship seem'd pitching fore and aft. 

As in a heavy squall ; 
It gave a lurch and down he went, 

Head-foremost in his fall ! 
Three times he did not rise, alas i 

He never rose at all ! 

But down he went, right down at 
once. 
Like any stone he dived, 
He could not see, or hear, or feel — 
\ Of senses all deprived ! 
At last he gave a look around 
To see where he arrived ! 

And all that he could see was green. 
Sea-green on every hand ! 

And then he tried to sound beneath, 
And all he felt was sand ! 

There he >vas fain to lie, for he 
Could neither sit nor stand ! 

And lo ! above his head there bent 
A slrani;e and staring lass ! 



One hand was in her yellow hair, 

The other helc a glass ; 
A mermaid she must surely be 
If ever mermaid was ! 

Her fish-like mouth was open'd wid«; 

Her eyes were blue and pale. 
Her dress was of the ocean-green, 

When ruffled by a gale ; 
Thought he " Beneath that petticoat 

She hides a salmon-tail ! " 

She look'd as siren ought to look, 
A sharp and bitter shrew, 

To sing deceiving lullabies 
For mariners to rue — 

But when he saw her lips apart, 
It chill'd him through and through ! 

With either hand he stopp'd his ears 

Against her evil cry ; 
Alas! alas! for all his care. 

His doom it seem'd to die ; 
Her voice went ringing through his 
head, 

It was so sharp and high ! 

He thrust his fingers farther in 

At each unwilling ear, 
But still, in very spite of all, 

The words were plain and clear: 
"I can't stand here the whole day 
l..ng 

To hold your glass of beer ! " 

With open'd mouth and open'd eyes. 

Up rose the sub-marine, 
And gave a stare to find the sands 

And deeps where lie had been: 
There was no siren with her glassy 

No waters ocean-green ! 

The wet deception from his eyes 
Kept fading more and more, 

He only saw the barmaid stand 
With pouting lip before — 

The small green ]~>arlour of The SLiy 
And little sanded floor 1 



* Comic Annual, 1S30. 



635 




Boarding-School. 



THE ISLAND* 

" Oh, had I some sweet little isle of my own ! " — Moore. 

IF the author of the " Irish Melodies" had ever had a little i'^Ie so 
much his own as I have possessed, he might not have found it so 
sweet :is the song anticipates. It has been my fortune, like Robinson 
Crusoe and Alex.nder Selkirk, to be thrown on such a desolate spot, 
and I felt so lonely, though I had a foUowef, that I wish Moore had 
been there. I had the honour of being in that tremendous action off 
P'misterre, which proved an end of the earth to many a brave fellow. 
I \\as ordered with a bonrding party to forcibly enter the Saiitissinia 
Triiiidada, but in the act of climbing into the quarter-gallery, which, 
however, gave no quarter, was rebutted by tue butt-end of a marine's 
gun, who remained the quarter-master of the place. I fell senseless 
into the sea, and should no doubt have perished in the waters of obli- 
vion, but lor the kindness of John Monday, who picked me up to go 
adrift with him in one of the ship's boats. All our oars were carried 
away, that is to say, we did not carry away any oars, and while shot 
was raining, our feeble hailing was unheeded. In short, as Shakespeare 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



6j6 



THE ISLAND. 



says, we were drifted off by " the current of a heady fipht." As mav 
be supposed, our boat was anything but the jolly-boat, for we had no 
provisions to spare in the middle of an immense waste. We were, in 
fact, adrift in the cutter with nothing to cut. We had not even junk 
for junketing, and nothing but salt water, even if the wind should 




The Pound ff Flesh. 

blow fresh. Famine indeed seemed to stare each of us in the f.nce ; 
that is, we stared at one another ; but if men turn cannibals, a great 
allowance must be made for a short ditto. We were truly in a very 
disagreeable pickle, with oceans of brine and no beef, and, like Shylock, 
I fancy we would have exchanged a pound of gold for a pound of flesh. 
The more we drifted Nor, the mere sharply we inclined to gnaw, — but 
when we drifted Sow, we. found nothing like pork. No bread rose in 
the east, and in the opposite point we were equally disappointed. We 
could not conii)ass a meal any how, Ijut got mealy-mouthed notwith- 
standing. We could see the sea-mews to the eastward, flying over 
what V>yxox\ calls the Gardens of (kill. We saw plenty of grampus, 
but they were useless to all intents and poipusses, and we had no ban 
f(ir catching a i ottle-nose. 

Time hung heavily on our hands, for our fast da\s seemed to pass 
very slowly, and our strength was rapidly sinking from being so mui h 
afloat. Still we nourished hope, though we had nothmg to give her. 
But at last we lost all prospect of land, if one may so say when no 
land was in sight. The weather got thicker as we were getting thinner; 
and though we kept a sharp watch, it was a very bad look-out. We 
could see aothing before us but nothmg to eat and drink. At last the 



THE ISLAND. 



637 



fog cleared off, and we saw something like land right ahead, but 
alas ! the wind w.is in our teeth as well as in our stomachs. We 
could do nothing but keep her near, and as we could not keep our- 
selves full, we luckily suited the course of the boat ; so that after a 
• tedious beating about — for the wind noi only gives blows, but takes a 
great deal of beating — we came incontinently to an island. Here we 
landed, and our first impulse on coming to dry land was to drink. 
There was a little brook at hand to which we applied ourselves till it 




Catching a Bottle-Nose. 



seemed actu lly to mu-mur at our inordinate thirst. Our next care 
was to look for iome food, for though our hearts were full at our escape, 
the neiglibouring region was dreadfully empty. We succeeded in 
getting some natives out of their bed, and ate them, poor things, as 
fast as th-y got up, but with some difficulty in getting them open ; a 
conmion oyster knife would have been worth the price of a sceptre. 
Our next concern was to look out for a lodging, and at last we dis- 
covered an empty cave, reminding me of an old inscription at 
Portsmouth, " The hole of this place to let." We took the precaution 
of rolling some great stones to the entrance, for fear of last lodgers, — 
that some bear might come home from business, or a tiger to tea. 
Here, under the rock, we slept without rocking, and when, through 
the night's failing, the day broke, we saw with the first instalment of 
li.',ht that we were upon a small desert isle, now for the first time an 
Isle of Man. Accordingly, tiie birds in this wild solitude were so little 
wild, that a number of boobies and noddies allowed themselves to be 
taken by hand, thou>;h the asses were not such asses as to be caught. 
There was an abundance of rabbits, which we chased unremittingly, 
OS Hunt runs Warren ; and when coats and trousers fell short, we 
clothed our skins with theirs, till, as Monday said, we each represented 
a burrow. In this work Monday was the tailor, for, like the maker of 
shadowy rabbits and cocks upon the wall, he could turn his hand to 
anything. He became a potter, a carpenter, a butcher, and a baker— 
that is to say, a m.ister butcher and a master baker, for I became 



638 



THE ISLAND. 



merely his journeyman. Reduced to a state of nature — Monday's 
favourite phrase for our condition — I found my being an officer 
fulfilled no office ; to confess the trutli, I made a very poor sort of 
savat;e, whereas Monday, I am persuaded, would have been made a 
chief by any tribe whatever. Our situations in life were completely* 
reversed ; he became the leader and I the follower, or rather, to do 
justice to his attachment and ability, he became like a strong big 
brother to a helpless little one. 

We remained in a state of nature five years, when at last a whaler 
of Huii — though the hull was not visible — showed her masts on the 




In Embarrassed Circumstances. 



horizon, an event which was telecrraphed by Monday, who began 
saying his prayers and dancing the college hornpipe at the same 
time with equal fervour. We contrived by lighting a fire, literally a 
feu-de-joie, to make a sign of distress, and a boat came to our si;^nal 
deliverance. We had a prosperous passage home, where the reader 
may anticipate the happiness that awaited us ; but not the trouble 
that vvas in store for me and Monday. Our parting was out of tlie 
question ; we would both rather have parted from our sheet-anchnr. 
We attempted to return to our relative rank, but we had lived so long 
in a kind of liberty and equality, that we could never resume our 
grades. The st.ite of nature remained uppermost with us bjoth, and 
Monday still watched over and tended me like Dominie Sampson 



THE KANGAROOS. 



639 



with the boy Harry Bertram ; go where I would, he followed with the 
Jogged pertinacity of Tom Pipes ; nnd do whnt 1 might, he interfered 
with the resolute vigour of John Dory in '"Wild Oats." This dis- 
position involved us daily, nay, hourly, in the most embarrassing cir- 
cumstances ; and how the connexion might have terminated I know 
not, if it had not been speedily dissc>lved in a very unexpected manner. 
One morning poor Monday was found on his bed in a sort of con- 
vulsion, which barely enabled him to grasp my hand, and to falter out, 
"Good-bye, I am go — going — back — to a state of nature." 




A Good Action meets its own Reward. 



THE KANGAROOS. 

A FABLE.* 

A PAIR of married kangaroos 

(The case is oft a human one too) 
Were greatly puzzled once to choose 

A trade to put their eldest son to, — 
A little brisk and busy chap. 

As all the little K.'s just then are, 
About some two months off the lip ; — 

They're not so long in arms as men are. 

A twist in each parental muzzle 
Betray'd the hardship of the puzzle — 

So much the flavour of life's cup 
Is framed by early wrong or right, 
And kangaroos we know are quite 

Dependent on their " rearing up." 
The question, with its ins and outs, 
Was intricate and full of doubts ; 

* Comic Annual, 1830 



64C THE KANGAROOS. 

And yet they had no squeamish caringt 
For trades unfit or fit for gentry, 
Such notion never had an entry, 

For they had no armorial bearings. 
Howbeit they're not the last on earth 
That mi'.^ht indulge in pride of birth ; 

Whoe'er has seen their infant young 
Bob in and out their mother's pokes. 

Would own, with very ready tongue, 
They are not born like common folks. 
Well, thus the serious subject stood. 

It kept the old pair watchful nightly, 
Debating for young Hopeful's good, 
That he might earn his livelihood, 

And go through life (like them) uprightly. 
Arms would not do at all ; no, marry, 
In that line all his race miscarry ; 

And agriculture was not proper, 
Unless they meant the lad to tarry 

For ever as a mere clodhopper. 
He was not well cut out for preaching, 

At least in any striking style ; 

And as for beinij mercantile — 
He was not fornVd for over-reaching. 
The law — why there still fate ill-starr'd hici^ 
And pLiinly from the bar dtbarr'd him ; 
A doctor — who would ever fee him? 

In music he could scarce engage ; 

And as for going on the stige, 
In tragic socks I think I see him 1 

He would not make a rigging-mounter; 

A haberdasher had some merit. 
But there the counter still ran counter J 

For just suppose 

A lady chose 
To ask him for a yard of ferret ! 
A gardener digging up his beds. 
The puzzled parents shook their headi 
"A tailor would not do because" — 
They paused and glanced upon his paws. 
Some parish post, — though fate should place il 
Before him, how could he embrace it? 

In short, each anxious kangaroo 
Discuss'd the matter through and through; 
By day they seem'd to get no nearer, 

'Twas posing quite — 

And in the night 
Of course they saw their way no clearer . 



ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER, 

At last, thus musing on their knees — 

Or hinder elbows if you please — 

It came — no thought was ever brighter 1 

In weighing every why and whether, 

They jump'd upon it both together — 

** Let's make the imp a short-hand writer l* 

MORAL. 

I wish all human parents so 

Would argue what their sons are fit for ; 
Some would-be critics that I know 

Would be in trades they have more wit for* 



«4I 




JJ'indiiig a May'r's Nest. 



ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER* 



O LUD ! O Lud ! O Lud ! 

I mean, of course, that venerable town, 
Mention'd in stories of renown, 

Built formerly of mud ; — 
O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er 

Invent the office of a mayor. 
An office that no useful purpose crowns, 
But to set aldermen against each other, 
That should be brother unto brother, — 
Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns ? 

But still, if one must have a mayor 
To fill the civic chair, 

• Comic Annual, 1832. 



t S 



64a ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 

O Lud, I say, 
Was there no better day 
To fix on than November Ninth so shivery, 
And dull for showing off the Livery's livery ? 
Dimming, alas ! 
The Brazier's brass, 
Soiling th' Embroiderers and all the Saddlers, 
Soppini^ the Furriers, 
Draggling the Curriers, 
And making Merchant Tailors dirty pnddlers ; 
Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin, 
Making the crusty Vintner ciuUer, 
And turning the Distiller 
To cold without instead of warm within ;— 
Spoiling the brand-new beavers 
Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers, 

Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers, 
Hearty November-cursers — 
And showing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers 
Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers ; 
Making the Grocer's Company not lit 

For company a bit ; 
Dyeing the Dyers with a dingy flood, 
Daubing incorporated Bakers, 
And leading the Patten-makers 
Over their verv pattens in the mud, — 
O Lud ! 6 Lud ! O Lud ! 

" This is a sorry sight," 
To quote Macbeth — but oh, it grieves me quite. 
To see your wives and daughters in their plumes — 
White plumes not white — 
Sitting at open windows catching rheums^ 
Not " angels ever bright and fair,'' 
But angels ever brown and sallow, i -« rv 

' With eyes — you cannot see above one pair, X^^ 

For city clouds of black and yellow-^ 
And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud, 
Such sable lilies 
And grim daffodilies. 
Drooping, but not for drought — O Lud ! O Lud I 

I may as well, while I'm inclined, 
Just go through all the faults I find : — 

O Lud 1 then, with a better air, say Jiine^ 
Could'st thou not find a better tune 
To sound witii trumpets and with drums 
Than "See the Conquering Hero conies," 

When he who comes ne'er dealt in blood? 
Thy may'r is not a war-horse, Lud, 
That ever charged on Turk or Tartiir, 



ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER, 643 

And yet upon a march you strike 

That treats him like — 

A httle French if I may martyr — ■ 
Lewis Cart-Horse or Henry Carter ! 

O Lud ! I say, 

Do change your day 

To some time wlien your Show can really show ; 

When silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow. 

Look at your Sweepers, how they shine m May t 
Have it when there's a sun to gild the coach, 
And sparkle in tiara — bracelet — brooch — 

Diamond — or paste — of sister, mother, daughter ; 
When grandeur really may be grand — 
But if thy pageant's thus obscured by land— 

Lud ! it's ten times worse upon the water ! 

Suppose, O Lud, to show its plan, 
I call, like Blue Beard's wife, to Sister Anne, 
Who's gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt. 
To see what she can see — and what siie can't j 
Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud, 
To keep the fog out of a tender lun,i:, 
While perch'd in a verandah nicely hung 
Over a margin of thy own black mud, 
O Lud! 

Now Sister Anne, I call to thee, 

Look out and see : 
Of course about the bridge you view them rally 

And sally. 
With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter ; 
The Fishmongers' grand boat, but not for butter, 

The Goldsmiths' glorious galley ; — 
Of course you see the Lord Mayor's coach aquatic^ 
With silken banners that the breezes fan, 
In gold all glowing, 
And men in scarlet rowing, 
Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic ; 
Of course you see all this, O Sister Anne? 

"No, I see no such thing ! 

1 only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf, 
With two coal-lighters fasten'd to a ring ; 

And, dim as ghosts. 
Two little boys are jumping over posts ; 

And something, farther off, 
That's rather like the shadow of a dog, 

And all beyond is iog 
If there be anything so fine and bright, 
To see it I must see bv second bight. 



U4 



ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 




Arms found. 

Can this a Show ? It is not worth a pin 1 

I see no barges row, 

No banners blow ; 
The Show is merely a galLinty-show, 
Without a lamp or any candle in." 

But Sister Anne, my dear, 
Although you cannot see, you still may hear? 
Of course you hear, I'm very sure of that, 

The " Water Parted from the Sea" in C, 
Or " Where the Bee sucks," set in B ; 
Or Huntsman's chorus from the Freischutz frightful. 
Or Handel's Water Music in A flat. 
Oh, music from the water comes delightful 1 
It sounds as nowhere else it can : 
You hear it first 
In some rich burst, 
Then faintly sighing, 
Tenderly dying, 
Away upon the breezes, Sistur Anne. 

" There is no breeze to die on ; 
And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harp% 
Could never cut their way with ev'n three sharps 
Through such a fog as this, you may rely on. 

I think, but am not sure, I hear a hum, 
Like a very muffled double drum, 
- And then a something faintly shrill, 

Like Bartlemy Fair's old buz at Pentonville. 



RONDEAU. 



«4S 



And now and then I hear a pop. 

As if from Pedley's soda-water shop, 
I'm ahnost ill with the strong scent of mud, 

And, not to mention sneezing, 

My cough is more than usual teasing ; 
I renlly fear that I have chill'd my blood, 
O Lud ! O Lud ! O Lud ! O Lud 1 O Lud I* 




'I'm Ml,, III,.. 
Fancy Portrjit 



-The Lord Mayor. 



RONDEAU. 

[extracted from a WEI.L-KNOWN ankual.]* 

O CURIOUS reader ! didst thou ne'er 
Behold a worshipful lord mayor 
Seated in his great civic chair 

So dear? 



Then cast thy longing eyes this way. 
It is the ninth November day. 
And in his new-born state sur'-ey 

One here I 

To rise from little into great 
Is pleasant ; but to simc in state 
From high to lowly is a fate 

Severe. 



Too soon his shine is overcast, 
Chill'd by the next November b!a»tj 
His blushing honours only last 

One year I 

He casts his fur and sheds his chains^ 
And moults till not a plume remains"- 
The next impending mayor distrains 
His gear. 

He slips like water through a sieve— • 
Ah, could his littie splendour live 
Another twelvemonth — he would giv« 
One eai*. 



* Comic Annual, 1832. 



H« 



6*6 




LONDON FASHIONS FOR NOVEMBER* 

REMARKS. 

NO season has offered such variMh in costume as the early part 
of the present month. Fancy dresses of tlie most oub'^ descrip- 
tion have appeared, even in the streets. Sliort waists and long, full 
sleeves and empty, broad skirts and narrow, whole skirts, half skirts, 
and none at all, have been indifferently worn. For the Promenade, 
rags and tatters of all kinds have been in much favour ; very few but- 
tons are worn ; and the coats, waistcoats, and pantaloons, have been 
invariably padded and stuffed with hay or straw. We observed several 
exquisites making morning calls in scarecrow greatcoats ; the skirts, 
laj)|iels, collars, and cuffs, picturesquely, but not too formally, jagged 
« la Wxndyke. The prevailing colours — all colours at once. Wigs 
have been very general — both en buzz and frizz^ ; these have been 
commonly composed of deal shavings ; but in some cases of tow, and 
Simietimes horsehair. For the evenin;^ party, a few squibs and crackers 
are stuck in iho. perriique or hat, and the boots and shoes are polished 
up with a little pitch or tar; sometimes a Catherine-wheel has been 
added en coguarde. Frills, collars, and ruffles oi papier coitpd have 
entirely superseded those of cambric or lace, and shirts of every des- 
cription are quite discarded. Paint has been in much request, and 
ruddle seems to have been preferred to rouge ; patches are also much 
worn, not on the countenance, but on the clothes ; for these the favourite 
T/iafc'nel is tartan, j^lush of any colour, or corduroy. Several dandies 
a|)f)eared on the Fifth with gloves, but they are not essential requisites 
to be in the ioft : canes are discarded ; even a riding-whip would be 
reckoned to evince mauvais goUt, but a halfpenny bunch of matches 
**a /rt main" is irdispensable to a fashionable aspirant. The old prac* 

• Comic Anr -^■1, 1831. 



SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION. 64? 

lice of being carried abroad in chairs has been universally revived; 
and it must be confessed that it exhibits the figure to much advantage. 

Amongst the nouveauth, we observed the follawing caractcre, as 
making a feHcitous debut. The coat was a-Ia-niilitai>e, of the colour 
formerly so much in vogue under the name oifuii/ce de Londres, turned 
up with ftamme d^eufer. It was ^ar«/ with very dead gold and slashed 
a I'Espagnole, back and front. The pantaloons were equally bizarre ; 
one leg being composed of Scotch tartan, and the other of blue striped 
bed-ticking, made very full, en viatelot, in compliance with the preiMil- 
ing taste for navals. The wig was made of green and while willow 
shavings, with a large link for a queue, tied on with a noeud of red tape. 
The hat, brown, somewhat darker than the Devonshire beaver, but 
disinclining to black. It had no brim, and was without a crown. A 
tarnibhed badge of the Phoenix Fire Office, on the bust, gave a distingui 
air to the whole figure, which was going down Bond street, and excited 
a sensation quite h Venvie by its appearance in the world of fashion. 

N.B. — We are requested to state that the above described fi^^ure 
was entirely invented and manufactured by little Solomon Levy, of 
Holywell street, Strand, who has a variety always on show, about the 
metropolis. 



SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION,* 

"An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to • 
Boncy-parte." — Life of Napoleon. 

Time was, I always had a drop At Belvidera now I smile, 

For any tale or si^ih of sorrow ; And laugh while Mrs Haller's crying; 

My handkerchief I Uocd to sop 'Tis odd, so great a change of style — 

Till often I was forced to bonowr ; I fear my heart is ossifying ! 

I don't know how it is, but now 

My eyelids seldom want a drying ; That heart was such— some years ago, 

The doctors, p'rhaps, could tell me To see a beggar quite would shock it, 

how And in his hat I used to throw 

I fear my heart is ossifying I Tiie quarter's savings of my pocket: 

I never wisli — as 1 did then ! — 

O'er Goethe how I used to weep. The means from my own purse sup- 
With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet, ply "ig', 

When Werter put himself to sleep To turn them all to gentlemen^ 

With pistols kiss'd and clean'd by I fear my heart is ossifying ! 

Charlotte ; 

Self-murder is an awful sin, We've had some serious things of late, 

No joke there is in bullets flying, Our sympathies to beg or borrow, 

But now at such a tale I grin— I^ew melo-drames, of tragic fate, 

I fear my heart is ossifying ! And acts, and songs, and tales of 

sorrow ; 

The Drama once could shake and thrill Miss Zouch's case, our eyes to melt, 

My nerves, and set my tears a-stealing. And :^undry actors sad good-bye •♦iig; 

The Siddons then could turn at will But Lord ! — so little have I fell. 

Each plug upon the main of feeling ; I'm sure my heart ifi ossifying' 

• Comic Annual, 1831. 




Cardy-Mums. 



SOME ACCOUNT OF WILLIAM WHISTONJ^ 

"That boy is the brother of Pam ." — Joseph Andrews. 

■ T 1 7ILLIAM certainly is fond of whist ! " 

VV This was an admission drawn, or extracted, as Cartwright 
would say, like a double tooth from the mouth of William's mother; 
an amiable and excellent lady, who ever reluctantly confessed foibles 
in her family, and invariably endeavoured to exhibit to the world the 
sunny side of her children. 

There can be no possibility of doubt that William ivas fond of whist. 
He doted en it. Whist was his first passion — his tirst love ; and in 
whist ha experienced no disappointment. The two were made for 
each other. 

William was one of a large bunch of children, and he never grew 
up. On his seventh birthday a relation gave him a miniature pack 
of cards, and made him a whistplayer for life. Our bias dates much 
earlier than some natural philosophers suppose. I remember William, 
a mere child, being one day William of Orange, and objecting to a St 
Michael's because it had no pips. 

At school he was a total failure, except in reckoning the odd tricks. 
He counted nothing by honours, and the schoolmaster said of his head, 
* Comic Annual, 1833. 



SOME ACCOUNT OF WILLIAM WHISTON. 649 

wliat he has since said occasionally of his hand, that it "held literally 
nothing." 

At sixteen, after a long maternal debate between the black and red 
suits, WiUiam was articled to an attorney ; but instead of becoming a 
respectable land-shark, he played doul:)]e-dummy with the common- 
law clerk, and was discharged on the 6th of November. The prmcipil 
remonstrated with him on a breach of duty, and William imprudently 
answered that he was aware of his duty, like the ace of spades. Mr 
Bitem immediately banged the door ag.iinst him, and WilHam, for the 
first time in his life — to use his o\vn expression, "got a slam." 

William having served his time, and, as he calls it, followed suit for 
five years, was admitted as an attorney, and be. an to play at that 
finessing game, the law. SJiori-hand he still studied and practised ; 
though more in parlours than in cairt. 

William at one period admired Miss Hunt, or Miss Creswick, or 
Miss .Hardy, or Miss Reynolds ; a daughter of one of the great card- 
makers, I forgot which — and he cut for partners, but without "getting 
the lady." His own explanation was, that he "was discarded." He 
then paid his addresses to a Scotch girl, a Miss iVIacNab, but she 
professed religious scruples about cards, and he revoked. I hive heard 
it said that she expected to match higher ; indeed William used to say 
she "looked over his hand." 

William is short, and likes shorts. He likes nothing of lon^s, but 
the St John of thtm ; and he only takes to him., because that saint is 
parti d to a rubber. Whist seems to influence his face as well as form ; 
it is like a knave of clubs. I sometimes fancy whist could not go on 
without William, and certainly William could not go on without 
•Afhist. His whole conversation, except on cards, is wool-gathering ; 
and on that subject is like wool — carded. He " speaks by the card," 
and never gives equivocation a chance. At the Olympic once he had 
a quarrel with a gentleman about the lead oi Madame Vestris or Miss 
Sydney: he was required to give his card, and i^ave the "Deuce of 
Hearts." This was what he termed "calling out." 

Of late years William onlv goes out like a bad rushlif:;ht, earlyish of 
a night, and quits every table that is not covered with green baize 
with absolute disgust. The fairies love by night to '■'' gambol on the 
greeny and so does William, and he is constantly humming with great 

gUbtO, 

**Come unto tliese yellow sands, 
And then lake ka>ids." 

The only verses, by the way, he ever trot by heart. He never cared 
to play much with the Mus -s. Thev stick, he used to say, at Nine. 
» William can sit longer — drink less — say as little — pay or receive as 
much — shuffle as well — and cut as deeply as any man on earth. You 
may leave him safely after dinner, and catch him at breakfast-time 
without alteration of attitude or look. He is a small statue erected in 
honour of whist, and, like eloquence, "holds his hand well up," He 
is content to ring the changes on thirteen cards a long midsummer 
night; for he does not play 3.\. cards— he ■:i'(?r/^j at them, and, consider- 
ing the returns, for very low wages. Wiiliam never was particularly 



650 



LINES TO A FRIEND A T COBHAI^. 




A Liouble at Long's. 

lucky ; but he bears the twos and threes with as much equanimity as 
any ovie, and seems, horticulturally speaking, to have grafted patience 
upon whist. I do not know whether it is the family motto, but he 
has upon his seal —with the Great Mogul for a crest— the inscription 
of " Packs in Bello." 

William is now getting old (nearly fifty-two), with an asthma, which 
he says makes him rather " weak in trumps." He is preparing himself 
accordingly to "take down his score," and has made his will, bequeath- 
in.ij, all he has, or has not, to a whist club. His funeral he directs to 
be quite private, and his gravestone a plain one, and especially " that 
there be no cherubims carved thereon, forasmuch," — says the 
characteristic document, " that they never hold honours." 

LINES TO A FRIEND AT COB HAM* 

'TiS pleasant, when we've absent friends, 
Sometimes to hob and nob 'em 
With memory's glass — at such a pasS| 
Remember me at Cobham ! 




Ball-Practice. 

Have pigs you will, and sometimes kill, 
But if you sigh and sob 'em, 

* Comic Annual, 1832. 



TO A BAD RIDER. 

And cannot eat your home-grown meat, 
Remember me at Cobham ! 

Of hen and cock, you'll have a stocky 
And death will oft unthrob 'em — 
A country chick is good to pick — 
Remember me at Cobham ! 

Some orchard trees of course you'll leastp 
And boys will sometimes rob 'em, 
A friend (you know) before a foe — 
Remember me at Cobham ! 

You'll sometimes have wax-lighted rootni^ 
And friends of course to mob 'em ; 
Should you be short of such a sort, 
Remember me at Cobham 1 



651 




Out at Elbowt. 



TO A BAD RIDER* 



Why Mr Rider, why 

Yoiu- nag so ill indorse, man? 
To make observers cry, 

You're mounted, but no horseman? 



IL 



With elbows out so far, 

This thought you can't Jebarine— » 
Thougli no dragoon — hussar — 

You're surely of the army 1 



I hope to turn M.P. 

You have not any notion, 
So awkward you would be 

At " seconding a molion I' 

• Comic Annual, 1 831. 




Son and Huir. 



MV SON AND HEIR.* 



V. 



My mother bids me bind my heir, 
But not the trade where I should 

bind ; 
To place a boy — the ho\A' and where — 
It is the plague of parent-kind 1 

II. 

She does not hint the sliyjiitest plan, 
Nor what indentures to endorse ; 
Whether to hind him to a man, — 
Or, like Mazeppa, to a horse. 

III. 

What line to choose of likely rise, 
To sometliing in the Stocks at last, — 
" Fast bind, fast find," the proverb 

cries, 
I find 1 cannot bind so fasti 

IV. 
A statesman James can never be ; 

A tailor? — there I only learn 
His chief concern is cloth, and he 
Is ilways cutting his concern. 



A seedsman? — I'd not have him soj 

A grocer's plum mij^ht di.'-appoiat ; 
A butcher?— no, not that — although 
I hear "the times arc out of joint 1 ' 

VI. 

Too many of all trades there be. 
Like pedlars, each has such a ]iack; 
A merchant selling coals? — \vc see 
The buyer send to cellar back. 

VII. 

A hardware dealer? — that might 

]ilease, 
But if his trade's foundation leans 
On s])ikes and nails he won't hav« 

ease 
When he retires upon his means. 

VIII. 
A soldier? — there he has not nerveaj 
A sailor seldom lays up pelf: 
A baker? — no, a baker ser.-es 
His customer before himself. 



* Comic Annual, 1S31, 



MY SON AND HEIR. 



653 



IX. 



Dresser of hair?~that's not the sort; 
A joiner jars with his desire — 
A churchman ? — ^James is very short. 
And cannot to a church aspire. 



A lawyer? — that's a hardish term i 
A publisher might give him ease, 
If he could into Longman's fiim, 
Just plunge at once^' in medias Rees." 



A shop for pot, and pan, and cup, 
Such brittle stock 1 can't advise ; 
A builder lunning houses up. 
Their gains are stories — maybe lies ! 



Xlt. 

A coppersmith I can't endure — 
Nor petty usher A, B, C-ing ; 
A publican no father suie 
Would be the author of his being ! 

XIII. 

A paper-maker?— come he must 
To rags before he sells a sheet — 
A miller? — all his toil is just 
To make a meal — he does not cat 

XIV. 

A currier? — that by favour goes — 
A chandler gives me great misgiving — 
An undertaker? — one of tho.^e 
That do not hope to get their living I 




:|lllll iiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiMMii'Mniilllill 
The i'aniily Library. 



XV. 

Three golden balls ? — I like them not; 
An au( tioneer I never did — 
The victim of a slavish lot, 
Obliged to do as he is bid I 



XVI. 
A broker watching fall and rise 
Oi slock? — I'd rather deal in stone,— 
A piuiiier? — there his toils compiise 
Anollier's work beside Ins uvvu. 



654 



Sir SON AKD HEIR. 



A cooper? — neither I nor Jem 
Have any taste or turn for that — 
A fish retailer? — but with him, 
One part of trade is always flat. 

XVIII. 

A painter? — long he would not live — 
An artist's a precarious craft — 
In trade apothecaries give, 
But very seldom take, a draught. 

XIX. 

A glazier ? — what if he should smash ! 
A Crispin he shall not be made— 



A grazier may be losing cash. 
Although he drives " a roaring trade 



Well, something must be done! to look 
On all my little works around — 
James is too big a boy, like hook, 
To leave upon the shelf unbound. 



But what to do ?--jny temples ache 
From evening's dew till morning's 

pearl. 
What course to take my boy to make— 
Oh could I make my boy — a girl 1 




Son and btuidih 



NATIONAL TALES 



PREFACE, 

IT has been decided, by the learned Malthusians of our century, th.it 
there is too great an influx of new books into this reading world. 
An apology setms therefore to be required for me for increasing my 
family in this kind ; and by twin volumes, instead of the single ociavos 
which hdve hitherto been my issue. But I concede not to that mcdt rn 
doctrine, which supposes a world on short allow.; nee, or a generation 
without a ration. There is no mentionable overgrowth likely to happen 
in life or literature. Wholesome checks are ai pointed against over- 
fecundity in any Sfecies. Thus the whale thins the myriads of her- 
rings, the teeming rabbit makes Thyesttan family dinners on her ov. n 
offspring, and the hyenas devour themselves. Death is never back- 
ward when the human race wants hoeing ; nor the critic to thin the 
propagation of the press. The surplus children, that would encumber 
the earth, are thrown back in the grave — the superfluous works into the 
coffins prepared for them by the trunk-maker. Nature provides thus 
equally against scarcity or repletion. There are a thousand blossoms 
for the one fruit that ripens, and numberless buds for every prosperous 
flower. Those for which there is no space or sustenance drop early 
from the bough ; and even so these leaves of mine will pass away, if 
there be not patronage extant, and to spare, that may endow them 
with a longer date. 

I make, therefore, no excuses for this production, since it is a ven- 
ture at my own peril. The serious character of the generality of the 
stories, is a deviation from my former attempts ; and I have received 
advice enough, on that account, to make ine present them with some 
misgiving. But because I have jested elsewhere, it does not follow 
that I am incompetent for gravity, of which any owl is capable ; or proof 
against melancholy, whicn besets even the ass. Those who can be 
touched by neither of these moods, rank lower indeed than both of 
these creatures. It is from none of the player's ambition, which has 
led the buffoon by a rash step into the tragic buskin, that I assume 
the sadder humour, but because I know from certain passages that 
such affections are not foreign to my nature. During my short life- 
time, I have often been as "snd ris right," and not like the young 
gentlemen of France, merely from ^^ antonness. It is the contrast of 
such leaden and golden tits that lends a double relish to our days. A 
life of mere laughter is like music without its bass ; or a picture (con* 
ceive it) of vague unmitigated light ; whereas the occasional melark- 



6s6 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

choly, lilce those errand rich glooms of old Rembrandt, produces an 
incomf)Hr ble ellVct and a very grateiul relief. 

It will fJHtter me, to find that these my Tales can give a hint to the 
dramatist — or a fe>v hours' entertainment to any one. I confess I have 
thought well enciugh of them to make me compose some others, which 
I kct-p at home, like the younger Benjamin, till I know the treatment 
of iheir elder brethren, whom I have sent forth (to buy corn for me) 
into Eji\pt. 

** To be too confideni is as unjust 

In any woik, as too much to distrust ; 
^\'ho. from tiie rules of study have not swerved, 
Know begg'd applauses never were deserved. 
Wc must admit to censure, so doth he 
Whose hours begot this issue ; yet, being f.'-ee. 
For his part, if he have not pleased you. then, 
In this kind he'll not trouble you again." 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY, 

INSTEAD of speaking of occurrences which accidentally came 
under my observ.ition, or were related to me by others, I |)urpose 
to speak of certain tragical adventures which personally concerned 
me ; and to judge from the agitation and horror which the remem- 
brance, at this distance of time, excites in me, the narrative shall not 
concede in intere->t to any creation of fiction and romance. My hair 
has changed from black to grey since those events occurred : — strange, 
and wild, and terrible enough for a dream, I wish I could believe that 
they had passed only on my pillow ; but when I look around me, too 
itumy sad tokens are [;resfnt to convince me that they were real, — for I 
still behold the ruins of an old calamity ! 

To commence, I must refer back to my \outh, when, having no 
brothers, it was my happy fortune to meet with one who, by his rare 
qualities and surpassing affection, made amends to me for thai 
dtni il of nature. Antonio de Linares was, like myself, an orphan, 
and that circumstance contribuif.d lo endear him to my heart ; we 
wi re both born, too, on the same day ; and it was one ot our childish 
superstiiicuis to believe, that theieljy our fates were so intimately 
blended that on the same day also we siiould each descend to the grave 
He was my schoolmate, my playfelUiw, my partner in all my little 
possessions ; and as we grew up, he became mv counsellor, my bosom 
friend, and adopted biotiier. 1 gave to his keening the very keys o( 
my heart, and with a like sweet confidence he entrusted me even with 
Ins ardent pa-~sion for my beautiful and accomplished cousin, Isabelle 
de **** ; and many earnest deliber.itions we held over the ceitain 
opposition to be dreaded from her father, who was one of the proudest 
as well as poorest nobles of Andalusia. Antonio had embraced the 
profession of arms, and his whole fortune lay at the point of his 
sword ; yet with that he Imped to clear himself a path to glory, to 
fc'eallh, and to Isabelle. The ancestors of the Condd himself had been 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 057 

ori^innlly ennobled and enriched by the gratitude of their sovereign, for 
llieir signal services in the held ; and when I considered the splendid 
and warlike talents which had been evinced by my friend, I did not 
think th .t his aspirations were too lofty or too sanguine. He seemed 
maiie for v\ar ; his chief delight was to read of the exploits of our old 
Spanish chivalry against the Moors; and he lamented bitterly that 
an interval of profound peace allowed him no opportunity of signalis- 
in,; his [irowess and his valour against the infidels and enemies of 
Spam. All his exercises were martial ; the chase and the bull-fight 
Wire his amusement, and more than once he engaged as a volunteer 
in expeditions against the mountain banditti, a race of men dangerous 
and de>tructive to our enemies in war, but the scourge and terror of 
their own country in times of peace. Often his bold and adventurous 
spirit led him into imminent jeopardy ; but the same contempt of 
danger, united with his generous and humane nature, made him as 
oft n the instrument of safety to others. An occasion upon which he 
lescued me from drowning, confirmed in us both the opinion that our 
lives were mutually dependent, and at the snme time put a stop to the 
frequent niiieries I used to address to him on his wanton and unfair 
exposures of our joint existences. This service procured him a gra- 
cious introduction and reception at my uncle's, and gave him oppor- 
tunities of enjoying the society of his beloved Is ibelle ; but the stern 
disposition of the Gondii was too well kno^vn on both sides to allow of 
any more than the secret avowal of their passion for each other. 
Many tears were secretlv shed by my excellent cousin over this cruel 
consideration, which deterred her from sharing her confidence with 
her parent ; but at length, on his preparing for a journey to Madrid, 
in those davs an undertaking of some peril, she resolved, by the 
assistance of filial duty, to overcome this fear, and to open her bosom 
to her father, before he departed from her, perhaps for ever. 

I was present at the parting of the Condd with his dauL;hter, which 
the subsequent event impressed too strongly on my memory to be ever 
forgotten. It has been much disputed wliether persons have those 
special warnings, by dreams or omens, which some afiinn they have 
experienced before sudden or great calamity ; but it is certain that be- 
fore the departure of my uncle, he was oppressed with the most gloomy 
forebodings. These depressions he attributed to the difficulties of the 
momentous lawsuit which called him to Madrid, and which, in fact, 
mvolved his title to the whole possessions of his ancestors ; but 
Isabelle's mind interpreted this despondence as the whisper of some 
guardian spirit or angel ; and this belief, united with the difficulty she 
lound in m king ttie confession that lay at her heart, m ide het 
earnestly convert these glooms into an argument against his journey. 

"Surely," she said, '"this melancholy which besets you is some 
warning irom abov -, which it would be impious to despise ; and there- 
fore, sir, let me entreat you to remain here, lest you sin by tempting 
your own fate, and make me wretched tor e-er." 

"Nay, Isabelle," he re 'lied gravely, "I should rather sin by mis- 
trusting the L'ood providence of God, which is with us in all pl.ices ; 
with the traveller in the desert, as with the mariner on the wild ocean ; 
notwithsiandiug, let me embrace you, my dear child, as though we 

3 T 



658 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

never should meet again ;" and he held her for some minutes closely 
pressed agamst his bosom, 

I saw that Isabelle's heart was vainly swelling with the secret it had 
to deliver, and would fain have spoken for her ; but she had strictly 
forbidden me or Antonio to utter a word on the subject, from a feeling 
that such an avowal should only come from her own lips. Twice, as 
her father prepared to mount his horse, ^,he cauyht the skirts of his 
mantle and drew him back to the threshold ; but as often as she 
attempted to speak, the blood overflooded her pale cheeks and bosom, 
her throat choked, and at last she turned away with a despairing 
gesture, which was meant to say, that the avowal was impossible. 
The Cond^ was not unmoved, but he mistook the cause of her agita- 
tion, and referred it to a vague prcsentmient of evil, by which he was 
not uninfluenced himself. Twice, after solemnly blessing his dau.;hter, 
he turned back ; once, indetd, to rept-at some trifling direction, but 
the second time he lingered, abstracted and thouglitful. as if internally 
taking a last farewell of his house and child. I had before earnestly 
entreated to be allowed to accompany him, and now renewed my 
request ; but the proposal seemed only to offend him, as an imputa- 
tion on the courage of an old soldier, and he deigned no other reply 
than by immediately setting spurs to his hOrse. I then turned to 
Isabelle ; she was deadly pale, and with clasped hands and streaming 
e>es was leaning against the pillars of the porch for support. Neither 
of us spoke; but we kept our eyes earnestly hxed on the lessening 
figure, that with a slackened pace was now ascending the opposite hill. 
The road was winding, and sometimes hid and sometimes yave him 
baek to our gaze, till at last he attained a point near the summit, where 
we knew a sudden turn of the road would :^oon cover him entirely from 
our sight. My cousin, I saw, was overwhelmed with fear and self-re- 
proach, and pointia;^ to the figure, now no bigger than a raven, I said 
I would still overtake him, and if she pleased, induce him to return; but 
she would not listen to the suggestion. Her avowal, she said, should 
never come to her father from any lips but her own ; but she still hoped, 
she added with a faint smile, that he would return safely from Madrid; 
and then, if the lawsuit should be won, he would be in such a mood, 
that she should not be afraid to unlock her heart to him. This answer 
sati-ihed me. The Cond^ was now passing behind the extreme point 
of tlie road, and it was destined to be the last glimpse we should ever 
have of him. Tlie old man never returned. 

As soon as a considerable time had elapsed more tlian was neces- 
sary to inform us of his arrival in the capital, we began to grow very 
anxious, and a letter was despatched to his advocate wiih the 
necessary inquiries. The answer brought affliction and dismay. The 
Conde had never made his appearance, and the greatest anxiety pre- 
vailed amongst the lawyers engaged on his behalf, for the success of 
their cause. Isabelle was in despair : all her tears and self-reproaches 
were renewed with increased bitterness, and the tenderest ari^unients 
of Antonio and myself were insufficient to subdue her alarm, or con- 
sole her for what was now a'^gravated in her eyes to a mobt heinous 
breach of filial piety and aftection. She was naturally of a relig'ous 
turn, and the reproofs of her confessor not only tended to increase hel 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 651 

despondency, but induced her to impose tipnn herself a voluntary and 
rnsh act of penance, that caused us the greatest affliction. It had 
been concerted between Antonio and myselt", that we should imnicdi- 
atelv proceed by different routes in search of my uncle ; and at day- 
break, after the receipt "f the advocate's letter, we were mounted and 
armed, and ready to set forth upon our anxious expedition. It only 
remained for us to take leave of my cousin ; and as we were conscious 
that some considerable degree of peril was att.iched to our pursuit, it 
was on mine, and must have been to Antonio's feeling, a parting of 
anxious interest and importance. But the fareuell was forbidden — 
the confessor himself informed us of a resolution which he strenuously 
commended, but which to us, for this once, seemed to rob his words 
of either reverence or authority. Isal-elle, to mark her penitence for 
her imaginary sin, had aiijured the com: any and even tlie sight of her 
lover until her father's return, and she should have reposed in his 
bosom that filial ce)nfidence, which, she conceived, had been so sinfully 
omitted. This rash determination was. confirmed by a sacred vow ; 
and m a momentary fit of disappointment and di^approliation, which 
with pain I now confess, I refused to avail myself of the exception that 
was allowed in my favour, to receive her farewell. Antonio was loud 
in his murmurings ; but the case admitted of no alternati\e, and we 
set forward with sad and heavy hearts, which were not at alllightened 
as we approached the appointed spot, where we were to diverge from 
each other. 1 was accompanied by my man-servant Juan ; but Antonio 
had resolutely persisted in his intention of travelling alone : the gener d 
rapidity and adventurous course of his [iroceedings, indeed, would 
have made a companion an incumbrance ; and he insisted that the 
impenetrability and consequent success of his plans, had been always 
most insured by his being single in tlieir execution. There w.s some 
reason in this argument. Antonio's spirits seemed to rally as he ad- 
vanced to the thresliold of the dan:jers and difficuhies he was going 
probably to encounter ; and after ardently wringing my hand, and half 
jestingly reminding me of the co-dependence of our lives, he dashed 
the spurs into his horse, and speedily galloped out of sight. 

The road assi.;ned to myself was the least arduous, but the one I 
thought it most likely m\ uncle would have taken on account of the 
neighbourhood of some family connexions, whither his bu-iness would 
most probably carry him ; but only at the first of these mansions could 
1 obtain any intelligence of his arrival. He had called there to obt.iin 
some necessary signatures, and had proceeded without any express- d 
intention of the route in which he was next to travel. It \\as conjec- 
tured, however, that he would proceed to the Chateau of * * * * 
another branch of the family, and to that point I directed my course. 
But here all clue was lost ; and no alternative was left me, but to 
return to the line of the high road to M drid. I must here pass over 
a part of my |}rogress, which would consist only of tedious repetitions. 
Traces, imagined to be discovered, but ending in constant disappoint- 
ment — hopes and fears — exertion and fatigue, make up all the hist >ry 
ol the second day, till finally a mistaken and unknown road brought 
Ub in time to take refuge from a tempestuous night at a lonely inn on 
the mountains. I have called it an inn, but the portion thus occupied 



SfiO THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

was only a fraction of an old deserted mansion, one wing of which had 
been rudely repaired and made hal:)Uable, whilst the greater p^rt was 
lett untenanted to its slow and picturesque decay. The contrast was 
striking : whilst in the windows ol one end, the iij;hts moving to and 
fro, the passing and repassing of shadows, and various intermitting 
noises and voices, denoted the occupancy ; in the centre and the other 
extreme of the pile, silence and darkness held their desolate and 
absolute reign. 1 thought I recognised in this building the descrip- 
tion of an ancient residence of my uncles ancestry, but long since 
alienated and surrendered to the w.irdenship of time. It fn-wncd, 
meihought, with the gloomy pride and defiance wiiich had been 
recorded as the heredit iry characteristics of iis founders ; and, but for 
the timely shelter It afforded, i slmuld perhaps have bittfrly denounced 
the appronriation of the inni^eeper, which interfered so injuriously with 
these hallowed associations. At present, when the si^y lowered, and 
large falling raindrops heralded a tempest, I turned without reluctance 
fmin the old quaintly- wrougiit portal, to the more humble porch, which 
held out its invitation of com oit and hospitality. 

My knoci^iiig brought the host himself to the door, and he speedily 
intri^duced me to an inner room, for the sniallness of which he 
apologised, adding, that I should hnd, however, that it was the better 
for being somewhat distant from the noisy carousal of his other guests. 
This man was a striking example of the strange marriage of incon- 
sistencies with which Nature sterns sometimes to amuse herself. My 
arms were instinctively surrendered to tlie offer of his care, and, till i 
looked agam on his face, 1 did not think t.ey had been so imprudently 
given up. His countenance— enveloped, almost hidden, in bl.ck shaj,'gy 
hair — had in it a savage, animal expression, th t excited at once my 
fear and disgust. It was wolf-hkc ; and as I have heard of brutes, 
that they are unable to endure the steady gaze of man. so his eyes were 
continually shifting ; ever restless, yet ever watchlul, though only by 
short and sidelong glances. They seemed to penetrate and surprise, 
by startling and hasiy snatches the designs and emotions you might 
have kept veil d frcim a more steadfast and determined inquisition. I 
am Certain, I would rather have met the most fixed and unremitting gaze 
tlian his. His frame was appropriately large, yet proportioned and 
muscular ; it seemed adapted at once for strength and activit\', — to 
spring, to wind, to crouch, or, at need, to stilfi n itself into an attitude 
of stainch and inflrxii)le resistance. How came such a figure to be 
the habitation of such a voice ? This w.is low, mellow, full of soft and 
musical inflexions, v\hich insinuated his courtesies with a charm it was 
impossible to repel. If the uturame be tuned by the heart, as some 
have affirmed, and the characteristics of passion denote themselves in 
the lines of the countenance, what an irreconcilable contradiction 
was involved in this man! His face was infernal, demoniac — his 
utterance divine ! 

I know not if he observed the eager scrutiny with which 1 dwelt on 
the e peculiarities ; he hastily left me just as I had commem ed those 
inquiries concerning my uncle, which my curiosity had in the firs^ 
instance delayed. Perhaps he could not, or would not, r- ply to m;' 
questions ; but they seemed to precipitate his reire.it. Was it pos- 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 66l 

Bible that he possessed any secret knowledge of the fz-te of the Cond^? 
His absence had been succeeded by a momentarv silence amongst tlie 
revellers without, as if he were relating to them the particulars of my 
inquiries. A slight glance nt that boisterous comp .ny during my 
hasty passage through their banquet-room, had given me no very 
favourable oninion of their habits or charncter ; and it was possiljle 
that the warlike defences and fastenings which I observed everywhere 
about me, mi:^ht be as much intended for the home security of a 
banditti, as for a precauti"n against their probable vicinity. It was 
now too late for me to retrace my steps. Flight w.is impracticable, 
the same precautions which were used against any hostile entrance, 
were equally opposed to my egress ; unless, indeed, 1 had recourse to 
the way by which I had entered, and which led through the comm n 
room immediately occupied by the objects of my suspicion : this 
would have been to dr.:w upon myself the very consequence I 
dreaded. My safety for the present beemed to be most assured by a 
careful suppression of all tokens of distrust, till these suspicions should 
be mi re explicitly confirmed ; and I should not readily forgive m\self 
if, after incurring all the dangers of darkness and tempest and an 
unknown country, it should prove that my apprehensions had been 
acted upon without any just foundation. 

These thoughts, however, were soon diverted by a new object. The 
innkeeper's daughter entered with refreshments, — bread merely, with 
a i&\s olives ; and I could not restrain Juan from nddressing to her 
some familiarities, which were so strangely and incoherentlv answered, 
as quickly to bespeak my whole attention. It was then impossible to 
look away from her. From her features she h ;d evidently been very 
handsome, with a good figure ; but now she stooped in her shoulders, 
and had that peculinr crouching and humbled demeanour, which I have 
often observed in the insane. Indeed, she had altogether the manner 
and apf)earance of one under the influence of mel incholy deran;-;e- 
ment. She looked, moved, spoke, like a being but half recovered from 
death and the grave ; as if the body, indeed, was released from its 
ceiements, but the mind had not yet escaped from its mortal thraldom. 
I never saw an eye so dark ani so dull in woman ! — it had not the 
least lustre or intelligence, but seemed glazed, and moved with a 
heaviness and languor just short of death ! Her cheeks were as pale 
as marble, but of a cold, unhealthy ashen white ; and my heart 
ached to think that they had been bleached, most probably, by bitter 
and continual tears. On her neck she wore a small black crucifix, 
which she sometimes kisst d, as if mechanically, and with a very f.ant 
semblance of devotion ; and her hands were adorned with several most 
costly and beautiful rings ; far foreign, indeed, to her station ; but 
borne, it seemed, without any feeling of personal vanity, or even of 
consciousness. The world seemed to contain for her no stirring 
interest ; her mind had stagnated like a dark pool, or had rather 
frozen, till it took no impression from any external olject. Where she 
acted, it was only from the mfluence of habit ; and when the task was 
done, she relapsed again into the same cold and calm indifference. 
Judge, then, of my astonishment,— I might say, terror, when this 
mysterious being, so insensible, so apparently abstracted from ali 



662 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

earthly contempl.itions, began to rivet her black eyes upon mine, and 

to lose iier accustomed ap.uhy in an expression of some wild and in- 
conceivable interest ! What was there in me to arouse her from that 
mental trance in which she had been absorbed ? I wished, \\ itii the 
most intense anxiety, to gain some information from her looks : and, 
yet at the same time, I could not confront her gaze even for an . 
instant. Her father, who had entered, surprisid at so extraordinary 
an emotion, hastened abruptly out ; and the immediate entrance of the 
mother, evidently upon some feigned pretext of business, only tended 
to increase my inquietude. 

How had I become an object of interest to these people, whom till 
that hour I had never seen ; and with whose afiairs, by anv possibility, 
1 could not have the mosi remote connexion, unless by their imfilica- 
tion in the fate of my uncle .'' This conjecture filled me with an alarm 
and agitation I could ill have concealed, if my remorseless observer 
had not been too much absorbed in her own undivined emotions, to 
take any notice of mine. A sensation of shame flushed over me, at 
being thus quelled and daunted Ijy the mere gaze of a woman ; but 
then it was such a look and from such a being as I can never behold 
ai^nin ! It seemed to realise all that I had read of Circean enchant- 
ment, or of the snake-like g: ze, neither to be endured nor shunned ; 
and under this dismal spell I remained till the timely entrance of 
Juan. The charm, whatever it might be, was then broken ; with a 
long shuddering si^h she turned awa. her eyes from me, and then left 
the room. What a load, at that moment, seemed removed from my 
heart ! Her presence had oppressed me, like that of one of the mortal 
Fates ; but now, at her :_;oing. my ebbing breath .returned again, and 
the blood thrilled joyfully througii my veins. 

Juan crossed himself m amaze! he had noticed me shrinking and 
shuddering beneath her glance, and doubtless framed the most horrible 
notions of ^n mfiuence which could work upon me so potently. He, 
too. had met with his own terrors, in a whispermg dialo,i;ue he had 
partially overheard during his em;iloyment in the stable, and which 
served to unravel the fearful myster\ tliat hung like a cloud over all 
the seeming and doings of that bew^dered creature. She had loved ; 
and It was but too plam. from the allusions of the dialogue, that the 
object of her affection had been a robber! He had suhered for his 
crimes a cruel and lingerin;^ de.ith, of which she had been a constrained 
spectator, and she had maddened over the remembrance of his 
agonies. 

It required but little conjecture to fill up the blanks of the narrative ; 
her manners, her apathy, the possession of those costly ornaments, 
were easily accounted for; and it only remained to find a solution 
for the wild and intense interest with which she had regarded me. 
This would have a natural explanation by supposing in mvself some 
accidental resemblance to the features of her lover; and the after- 
course of events proved that this conjecture was well founded. There 
were sufficient grounds in these i articulars for inquietude and alarm. 
From the nature of her attachment, the avocations and connexums 
of tlic family must be oi a very dubious charac-er. What if m\- host 
himself should be secretly associated with some neighbouring hoidc 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 663 

of banditti, and under his ostensible occupation of innkeeper, abetteu 

their savage and bloodthirsty designs upon the unwary traveller! 
Might not his very house be their lurking-plnce or rendezvous ? nay, 
might it not be provided with cellars and ir.ips. and secret vaults, and 
all tuose atrocious contrivances which we have heard of as expressly 
prepan d lor the perpetration of outrage and murder? There was a 
marked wariness and reserve about the master, a mixture of fox-like 
caution, with the ferocity of the wolf, that confirmed, rather than 
allaved such suspicions ; and why had my arms been so officiously 
conveyed away, under a pretence of care and attention, but in reality 
to deprive me of even the chances of defence ? All these considera- 
tions s'naped themselves so reasonably, and agreed together so 
naturally, as to induce conviction ; and looking upon myself as a 
victim alreadv marked for destruction, it only remained for me to 
exercise afi'my sagacity and mental energy, to extricate myself from 
the toils. Flight I had resolved was impracticable, — and if I should 
demand my arms, the result of such an application was obviously 
certain ; I dared not even hint a suspicion : but why do I speak of 
susjiicions ? they were immediately to be ripened into an appalling 
certainty. 

I had not communicated my thoughts to Juan, knowing too well his 
impetuous and indiscreet character ; but in the meantime his own 
fears had been busy with him, and his depression was aggravated by 
the circumstance that he had not been able to procure any wine from 
the innkeeper, who swore tiiat he had not so much as a flask left in 
his house. It would have been difficult to believe that one ot his 
profession should be so indifferentlv provided ; but this assertion, made 
lu the face of all the flasks and. flagons of his revellers, convinced 
me that he felt his own mastery over us, and was resolved to let us cost 
him as little as possible. 

Juan \v as in despair; his courage was always proportioned to the 
wine he had taken, and feeling at this moment an urgent necessity for 
its assistance, he resolved to supply himself by a stolen visit to the 
cellar. He had shrewdly taken note of its situation during a temporary 
assistance rendered to the innkeeper, and made sure that by watching 
his Ojjportunity he could reach it unperceived. It seemed to require 
no small degree of courage to venture in the dark upon such a course ; 
but the exciiement was stronger than fear could overbalance ; and 
plucking off his boots, to prevent any noise, he set forth on his expedi- 
tion. No sooner was he gone, than I bei;an to perceive the danger to 
which such an imprudent step might subject us, but it was too late to 
be recalled, and I was obliged to wait in no very enviable anxiety for 
his return. 

The interval was tediously long, or seemed so, before he made his 
appearance. He bore a small can ; and, from his looks, had met 
with no serious oi)Siacle ; Vjut whether the theft had been observed. <t 
it h ppened simply by chance, the innkeeper entered close upon hi 
heels There is sometimes an- instinctive presence of mind inspire 
by the aspect of danger ; and guided by this impulse, in an instant 
extinguished the liglit as if by accident. For a time, at least, we wort 
sheltered Irom discovery. The innkeeper turned back — it was a critical 



§64 THE SFAXIS/r TRACRDY. 

moment for us — but even in that moment the unruly spirit of drink 
prompted my unlucky servant to take a drauj^ht of his stolen beverage, 
and immediately afterwards I lie ird him spittir.g it forth again, in 
evident disi^ust with its flavour. In a few moments the innkeeper re- 
turned with a lamp, and as soon as he was gone the liquor was eagerly 
inspected, and to our unspeakable horror, it had e\ery appearance of 
blood ! It was impossible to suppress the effect of the natural disgust 
which affected Juan at this loathsome discovery — he groaned aloud, 
he vomited violently, the innkeeper again came in upon us, and though 
I attributed the illness of my servant to an internal rupture which 
occasioned him at times to spit up blood, it was evident that he gave 
no credit to the explanation. He seemed to comprehend the whole 
scene at a glance. In fact, the vessel with its horrid contents stood 
there to confront me, and I gave up my vain attempt in silent and 
ab^o]ute despair. 

If we were not before devoted to death, this deadly circumstance had 
decided our fate. His own safety, indeed, would enforce upon the inn- 
keeper the necessity of our being sacrificed. The fellow, meanwhile, 
departed without uttering a syllable : but I saw in his look that his de- 
termination was sealed, and that my own must be as promptly resolved. 
I had before thought of one measure as a last desper..te resource. Tiiis 
was to avail myself of the favourable interest I had excited in the 
daughter— to appeal to her pity — to awaken her, if possible, to a sym- 
pathy with mv danger, and invoke her interference to assist my escape. 
Yet how could I obtain even an interview for my purpose? Strange 
that I should now wish so ardently for that very being whose presence 
had so lately seemid to me a curse. Now I listened tor her viuce, her 
step, with an impatience never equalled, perhaps, but by him for whom 
she had crazed. My whole hope rested on that resemblance which 
might attract her again to gaze on a shadow, as it were, of his image, 
and 1 was not deceived. She came again, and quietly seating herself 
before me, began to watch me with the same earnestness. 

Poor wretch 1 now that I knew her history, I regarded her with 
nothing but tenderness and pity. Her love might have burned as 
briL;ht and pure as ever was kindled in a m uden's bosom; and was 
she necessarily aware of the unhallowed profession of its object? He 
might have been brave, generous — in love, at least, honoured and 
honourable, and comi^ared with the wretches with whom her home 
associated her, even as an angel of light. Would his fate else have 
crushed her with that eternal sorrow ? Such were my reflections on 
the melancholy of the worn m before me ; and if my pity could obtain 
its recompense in hers, I was saved ! 

Hope c<-.tches at straws. I saw, or fancied in her looks, an 
afrecvionate expressiim of sympathy and anxiety, that I eagerly 
interpreted in mv own behalf; but the result belied this antici|)a- 
tion. It was evident that my most impassioned words produced no 
corresponding impression on her mind. My voice even seemed to 
dispel the illasion that was raised by my features, and rising up, she 
was going to withdraw, but that I detained her by seizimj her hand. 

" No, no ! " she said, and made a slight effort to free herself ; " you 
*re not Andreas." 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 665 

* No, my poor maiden," I said, " I am not Andreas ; but am 1 not 
his imai^re? Do I not remind you of his look, of his features?" 

'•Yes, yes," she replied quickly, " you are like my Andrt-as — you are 
like him here," and she stroked back the h lir fr^m my foreh-a;i ; 
" but his hair was darker thnn this," and the mournlul remembrance 
for the first time rilled her dull eyes with tears. 

This was an auspicious omen. Whilst I saw only her hot glazed 
eyes, ;is if the fever within had parched up every te.ir, I despaired of 
exciiin;^ her symp<»thy with an external interest ; but now that her grief 
and her malady even seemed to relent in tiiis effusion, it was a f.ivour- 
a'ule moment for renewing my appeal. I addressed her in the most 
touching voice I could assume. 

" You loved Andreas, and you say I resemble him ; for his sake, will 
you not save me from p rishing?" 

Her only answer was an unconscious and wondering look. 

" I know too well," I contmued, ''that I am to perish, and you know 
it likewise. Am 1 not to be murdered this very night ?" 

She made no reply ; but it seemed as if she had comprehended my 
words. Could it be that, with thai stran:^e cunning not uncommon to 
insanity, she thus dissembled, in order to cover her own knowledge of 
the murderous designs of her father? I resolved, at least, to proceed 
on this supposition, and repeated my words in a tone of cert liniy. 
This decision had its effect ; or else, her reason had before been in- 
com'etent to my question. 

" Yes ! yes ! yes ! " she said, in a low hurried tone, and with a 
suspicious glance at the door, "it is so ; he will come to you about 
midnight. You are the son of the old man we strangled." 

Conceive how I started at these words ! They literally stuny mv 
ears. It was not merely that my worst fears were verified as regarded 
the fate of my uncle ; for, doubtless, he was the victim— or, that 1 was 
looked upon and devoted to a bloody death as his avenger ; for these 
announcements I was already prepared ; but there was yet another 
and a deeper cause of iiorror : — "The old man that we stran<'led ! " 
Had that wild maniac then lent her own hands to the horrid deed ? had 
she, perhaps, helped to bind — to pluck down and hold the stru:-:gling 
victim — to stifle his feeble cries — nay, joined her strength even to 
tighten the fatal cord ; or was it that she only implicated herstll in 
the act, by the use of an equivocal expression ? It might merely 
signify, that it was the act of some of those of the house, with whom, 
by habit, she included iierself as a part. At the same time, I could 
not Ijut remember, that even the female heart has been known to 
become so hardened by desperation and habundes of crime, as to be 
capable of the most ferocious and remorseless cruelties. She had, too 
those same black eyes and locks, wiiich I have always been accus- 
tomed to think of in connection with Jael and Juditii, and all th se 
stern-hearted women, who dipped their uni'aitering h nds in blood. 
Her brain was dizzy, her bosom was chilled, her sympathies were dead 
and torpid, and she might gaze on murder and all its horrors with her 
wonted apathy and indifference. To what a being then w's I going 
to commit my safety ! To one wh<5 from the cradle had been nursed 
ii'iiidst scenes of bloodshed and violence ; whose associates had ever 



«66 THE SPANlSff TRAGEDY. 

been the fierce and the lawless ; whose lover even had been a lender of 

banditti ; and by his influence and example, migiit m ike evm murder 
and criRity lose some portion of their natural blacknesi and horr .r. 

It miL;ht happen, th.it in these thoughts I wrcinged lh.it unh;>.priy 
crrature; but my dismal situation predisposed me to rci^nrd everything 
in the most unfavourable light I had c.iuse for apprehension in every 
sound that was raistd — in every foot that stirred — in whatever face I 
m^t — that belonged to that honiole place. Still, my present experi- 
ment was the List, short of m.re force, which I could hope would 
avail me ; ar.d I resumed theattenijit. It seemed prudent, in order to 
quiet the suspicion I had excited, that I should first disclaim all 
c •nnection or interest in the unfortunate victim ; and I thought ii not 
criminal, in such an extremity, to have recourse to a falsehood. 

"What you s.iy,'' I replied to her, "of an old mm being murdered, 
is to me a mystery. If such an occurrence has happened, it is no 
doubt lamentable to some one ; but as tor my lather, I trust, that f.T 
these many years he has been with the blessed in the presence of God. 
For myself, 1 am a traveller, and the purposes of my journey are 
purely merc.intiie. My birthplace is England— but, alas! I shall 
ne\er see it again ! You tell me 1 am to die to-niL;ht — that I am to 
jieri-^h by violenc e — and have you the he.irt to re-ign me to such a 
horrible fate? You have power or interest to save me; let me not 
perish by 1 know not what cruelties. I have a home far away — let it 
not be made desolate. Let me return to my wife, and to my young 
children, and they shall daily bless thee at the foot of our altars ! " 

1 believe the necessity of the occasion inspired me with a suitable 
eloquence of voice and manner ; for these words, untrue as thty were, 
made a visible impression on the wild beint; to whom they wv re 
addressed. As I bpoke of violence and cruelty she shuddered, as if 
moved by her own terrible associations witli those words ; but \\hen I 
rame to the mention of my wife and children, it eviilentlv aw, kened 
her compassion ; and all at once, her womanly nature burst through 
the sullen clouds that had held it in ecli[ise. 

" Oh no— no— no !" she replied, hurriedly ; "you must not die— 
your babes will weeo else, and your wife will craz;-. Andreas w tuld 
have said thus too, but he met with no pity for all the eyes that wept 
for him. ' 

She clasped her forehead for a moment with her hnnds, and con- 
tinued : — " But 1 must find a way to s.ive you. I thought, when he 
(iied, I could never pity any one a;_;ain ; but he will be glad in heaven 
that 1 have spared one for his sal^e." 

A momentary pang shot through me at these touching words, when 
I lemembered how much I had wronged her by my injurious 
suspuions: but the ccmsideiation of my personal satety quickly 
engrossed my thou.yhts, and I demanded eagerly to know by what 
means she proposed to effect my escape. She soon satisfied me that 
it would be a trial of my utmost fortitude. There was a secret door 
in the panelling of mv allotted bedchamber, which communicated 
with her own, and by this, an hour before midnight, she would guide 
mc and provide for my egress from the house : but she could neither 
promise to procure me my horse, nor to provide for the safety of the 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 66? 

OTilucVy Juan, who was destined to be lodged in a loft far distant from 
m\' apartment. It may be imagined that I listened witii a very un- 
willing ear to this arrangement ; by which, alone, unarmed, I was to 
await the uncertain coming of my preserver. What if by any acciden*- 
it should be preceded by that of the assassin .'' — but it was idle ic 
indulge in these doubts. There was but one chance of escipe open to 
me ; and it was for me to embrace it upon whatever terms it was 
offered Accordingly, I promised to conform implicitly to the maiden's 
instructions, to offer no opposition to any arrangements which should 
be made, to stifle can fully the slightest indications of mistrust, to seal 
up my lips for ever in silence on these events, and above ail, to avoid 
any expression or movement which might give umbrage to her father; 
with these cautions, and kissing her crucifix in token of her sincerity, 
she left me. 

I was alone ; Juan, on some occasion, had withdrawn, and I was left 
to the companionshir) of reflections which in such a leveri-;h interval 
could not be anytliing but disgusting. At one time, I calculated the 
manv chances there were against the continuance of this rational 
interval in the mind of a maniac : then I doubted her power of saving 
me, and Whether the means she had proposed as existing in realitv 
might not be her own delusion, as well as mine. I even debated with 
myself, whether it was not nn act of moral turpitude that I should 
accept of deliverance without stipulating for the safety of my poor 
servant. 

These thoughts utterly unnerved me. The ticking of the clock grew 
into a sensation of real jnd exquisite pain, as indicating the continual 
advances of time towards a certain crisis, with its yet uncertain catas- 
trophe. The hour-hand v.ms already within a few digits of ten, and 
kept travelling onward with my thoughts to a point tuat miyht verge 
vvitii me on eternity. The lamp was every moment consuming its little 
remainder of oil, to supply me, it might be, witli my hist of ligiit. My 
days were perhaps numbered ; and the blood taking its last course 
through my veins ! 

One of these subjects of my anxiety I might have spared mvself. 
The innkeeper abrui'tly entered, and with a look and tone of seeming 
diss..tisraction, informed me that Juan had decamped, taking with him 
my arms, and whatever of my portable property he'had been able to 
lay his hands iMon. .So far, then, if the tale was true, he was safe : but 
it seamed wonderful by wliat means he could have eluded a vigilance 
which, doubtless, included him in its keeping ; and still more, that at 
such a moment he should have chosen to rob me. A minute agn I 
would have stakt-d my fortune on his honestv, and my life on his 
fidelity. The story was too improbable : but on the other hand, it was 
but too likely that he had either been actually despatched, or else in 
some way removed from me, that I might not claim his company or 
assistance in my chamber. 

Th.re was only one person who was likely to solve these doubts, and 
she was absent ; and I began to consider that in order to give time and 
scope tor her promised assistance, it was necessary that I should retire. 
To ask in a few words to be shov n to my room seemed an easv task : 
but when 1 glanced on the dark scowling features of my chamberlain, 



(68 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

harshly and vividly marked by the strong light and shade, as he bent 
over the lamp, even those few words were beyond my utterance. To 
meet such a visa^^e, in the dead of night, thrusting apart one's curtains, 
would be a sufficient warnmg tor death ! The ruffian seemed to un- 
derstand and anticiuate my unexpressed desire, and t. iking up the lanin, 
proposed to conduct me to my chamber. I nodded assent, and he 
began to lead the way in the same deep sih nee. A mutual and con- 
scious antipathy seemed to keep us from speaking. 

Our way led through several dark, n irmw passages, and through 
one or two small rooms, which I lost no tnne m reconnoitring. The 
accumulated cobwebs which hung from all the angles of the ceilings, 
the old dingy furniture, and the visible neglect of cleanliness, gave 
them an aspect of dreariness that chilled me to the very soul. As I 
passed through them, 1 fancied tl.at on the dusty floors I could trace 
the stains of blood ; the walls seemed spotted and splashed with the 
same hue ; the rude hands of my host-guide even seemed tinged with 
it. As though I had gazed on the sun, a crimson blot hovered befi le 
me wherev'er I locked, and imbued all objects with this horrible colour. 
Every moving shadow, projected by the lamp on the walls, seemed to 
be the passing spectre of some one who had here been ftiurdered, 
sometimes confronting me at a door, sometimes looking down upon 
me from the ceiling, or echoing me, step by step, up the old, crazv 
stairs ; still following me indeed, whithersoever 1 went, as if conscious 
of our approaching fellowship ! 

At last I was informed that I stood in my allotted chamber. I 
instantly and mechanically cast my eyes towards tne window, and a 
moment's glance sufficed to slio.v me that it wis strongly grated. This 
movement did not escape the vigilant eye of my companion. 

" Well, Senor," he said, " what dost think ? have I not bravely bar- 
ricaded my chateau ? " 

1 could make no answer. There was a look and tone of triumph 
and malicious irony, accompanying ttie question, that would not have 
suffered me to speak calmly. The ruffian had secured his victim, and 
looked upon me, no doubt, as a spider does upon its prey, which it 
h s immeshed, and leaves to be destroyed at its leisure. Fortunately, 
I recollected his daughter's caution, and subdued my emotion in his 
presence ; but my heart sank within me at his exit, as I heard the 
door locked behind him. and felt myself his prisoner. All the horrible 
narratives I had read, or heard related of midnight assassinations, of 
travellers murdered in such very abodes as this, thronged into my 
memory with a vivid and hideous hdelity to their wild and horrible 
details. A fearful curiosity led me towards the bed ; a presentiment 
that it would aftord me some unequivocal confirmation of thi se tears; 
and I turned over the pillow, with a shuddering conviction that on Tne 
under side 1 should be startled with stains of blood. It was, however, 
fair, snow-white indeed ; and the sheets and coverlet were of the same 
innocent colour, 

I then recollected the secret panel- It was natural that I should be 
eager to verify its existence, but with the strictest inspection I could 
make, 1 was unable to discover any trace of it. Panels indeed opened 
apon me from every side ; but it was only to usher forth hideous phan- 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 66j 

toms of armed ruffians, with brandished dagtrers, that vanished 
again on a momtnt's scrutiny : and as these panels were only crea- 
tions of my ima;;ination, so that one for which I sought had no 
existence, I doubtea not, but in the bewildered brain of a maniac. 

Thus, then, my last avenue to escape was utterly annihilated, and I 
had no hope left but in such a despairing resistance as I might m.ike 
by help of the more bones and sinews with which God had provided 
me. The whole furniture of the chami)er would not afford me an 
eflective weapon, and a thousand times 1 cursed myself that I had not 
sooner adopted this desperate resolution, while such rude arms as a 
fireplace could supply me with were within my reach. There was 
now nothing left for me but to die ; and Antonio would have anotlier 
victim to avenge. Alas ! would he ever know how or where I had 
perished ; or tiiat I had even passed the boundaries of death ? I should 
fall unheard, unseen, unwept, and my unsoothed spirit would walk 
unavenged, with those shadows I had fancied wandering. The 
reflection maddened me. My brain whirled dizzdy round ; my 
brow seemed parched by the fever of my thoughts, and ha-tening 
to the window, I threw open a little wicket lor air : a grateful gush 
of wind inmiediately entered ; but the lamp with which I had been 
making my Iruitless search, was still in my hand, and that gust extin- 
guished it. 

Darkness was now added to all my other evils. There was no 
moon, nor a single star; the night was intensely obscure, and 
groping my way back to the bed, I cast myself upon it in an agony of 
despair. 1 cannot describe the dreadful storm ot passions that shook 
me : fear, anguish, horror, self-n proach, made up the terrible chaos ; 
and then came rage, and I vowed, if ever I survived, to visit my tor- 
meniurs with a bloody and fierce retribution. I have said that the 
r:i()m was utterly dark, but ima'jination jjcopled it with terrific images; 
and kept my eyes straining upon the gloom, with an attention pain- 
fully intense. Shadows, blacker even than the night, seemed to pass 
and repass before rae ; the curtains were grasped and withdrawn ; 
visionary arms, furnished with glancing steei, were uplifted and 
descended again into obscurity. E'. ery sense was ass -iled ; the silence 
was interrupted by audible breathings — slow, ciutious footsteps stirred 
across the floor — imagined hands travelled stealthily over the bed- 
clothes, as if in feeling for my face. Then I heard distant shrieks, 
and recognised the voice of Juan in piteous and gradually stifled inter- 
cession ; sometimes the bed seemed descending under me, as if into 
some yawning vault or cellar, and at otners, faint fumes of sulphur 
would seem to issue from the floor, as if designed to suffocate me, 
without affording me even the poor chance of resistance 

At length a sound came, which my ear readily distinguished, by its 
distinctness, from the mere suggestions of fear : it w..s the cautious 
unlocking and opening of the door. My eyes turning instantly in that 
dire( tion were eagerly distended, but there was not a glimmer of light 
even acct'inpanii,d the entrance of my unknown visitor: but it was a 
man's tool. A boiling noise rushed through my ears, and my tongue 
and thro, t were i arched with a sudden and stifling thirst. The powel 
of uittiance and of motion seemed at once to desert me ; my hear 



670 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

panted as thouyjh it were grown too lart;e for my body, and the weight 
of twenty mountains lay piled uoon my breast. To lie still, hf>\vever, 
was to be lost. By a violent exertion of the will, 1 tinng myself out of 
the bed, furthest from the door ; and scarcely liad I set foot upon the 
ground, when I heard somethin<j strike agiinst the opposite siae, 
Immediatelv afterwards a heavy blow was given — a second — a third ; 
the stabs themselves, as well as the sound, seemed to fall upon my 
verv heart. A cold sweat riisheo out upon my forehead. I felt side, 
my limbs bowed, and I could barely keep myself from falling. It was 
Certain that my absence would be promptly discovered : that a search 
would instantly commence, and my only cliance was, by listening 
intensely for his footsteps, to discern the course and elude the ap- 
proaches of my foe. 

I could hear him grasp the pillows, and the rustling of the bed- 
clothes as he turned them over in liis search. For a minute all was 
then deeply, painfully silent. I could fmcy him stealing towards me, 
nnd almost supposed the warmth of his breath against my face. I 
expected every instant to feel myself seized, I knew not where, in his 
grasp, and my flesh was ready to shrink all over from his touch. Such 
an mterval had now elapsed as I judged would suffice for him to 
traverse the bed ; and in fact the next moment his foot struck against 
the wainscot close beside me, followed by a long hasty sweep of his 
arm along the wall — it seemed to p: ss over my head. Thtn all was 
still a^ain, as if he paused to listen ; meanwhile I strode away, silently 
as death, in the directinn of the op; osiie side ot the chamber. Then 
I paused : but I had suppressed my breath so long, that involuntarily 
it escaped from me in a long deep sigh, and I was forced again to 
change my station. There was not a particle of light ; but in shifting 
cauiiously round, I esi)ied a bright spot or crevice in the wall : upon 
this spot I resolved to keep my eyes steadily fixed, judging that by 
this means I should be warned of the approach of any opaque body, 
by its intercepting the li.t;ht. On a sudden, it was obscured ; but I 
have reason to believe it was by some unconscious movement of my 
own, for just as I retired backwards from the approach, as 1 conceived, 
of iny enemy, I -was suddenly seized from behind. The crisis was 
come, and all my fears were consummated : I was in the arms of the 
assassin ! 

A fierce and desperate struggle instantly commenced, which, from 
its nature, could be but of short duration. 1 was defenceless, but my 
adversary was armed ; and, wherever he might aim his dagger, I was 
disabled, by the utter darkness, from warding off the blow. The 
salvation of my lite depended only on the strength and presence of 
mind I might bring to the conflict. A momentary relaxation of his 
hold indicated tliat my foe was about to make use of his weapon ; and 
my immediate impulse was to grasp him so closely round the body, as 
to dei'rive him of ihe advantage. My antagonist was fearfully power- 
ful, and struggled violently to free himself from my arms ; but an 
acquaintance with wrestling and athletic sports, acquired in my youtii, 
and siill more the strong love of lite, enabled me to grapple with him 
and maintain my iioid. I was safe, indeed, only so long as I c nild 
ttstr.iin him from the use of his steel. Our arms were firmly locked 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 67 1 

In each other, our chests closely pressed together, and it seemed that 

siren- th at least was fairly m. itched with strength. 

Frnm a dogged sliame, perhnps, or whatever cause, the ruffi.m did 
not deign to summon any other to his aid, but endeavoured, singiy and 
silently, to accomplish his bloody task. Not a word, in fact, was 
littered on either part — not a breathing space even was allowed by 
our brief and desperate struggle. Many violent efforts were made by 
the wretch to disengage himself, in the course of which we were often 
forced against the wall, or hung balanced on straining sinews, ready 
to (all headlong on the floor. At last, by one of these furious exertions, 
we were dashed against the wall, and the panelling giving way to our 
weigiit, we were precipitated with a fearful crash, but still clinging to 
each other, down a considerable descent. On touching the ground, 
however, the violence of the sho'k separated us. The ruffian, fortu- 
nately, h id fallen undermost, which stunned him, and gave me time 
to spring ujjon my feet. 

A moment's glance round told me that we had fallen through the 
secret panel, spoken of by the maniac, into her own chamber ; but 
my eyes were too soon riveted by one object, to take any further note 
of the place. It was her — that wild, strange being herself, just risen 
from her chair at this thunderini; intrusion, drowsy and bewildered, 
as if from a calm and profound sleep. She that was to watch, to 
snatch me from the dag:-;er it.-elf. had forgotten and slept over the 
ap' ointment that involved my very existence ! 

But this was no time for wonder or npro ,ch. My late assailant 
was lying prostrate before me, and his masterless weapon was leadily 
to be seized and appropriated to my own defence. 1 mi;-;ht have killed 
him, but a moment s reflection showed me that his single death, whilst 
it might exasperate his fellov\ s, could tend but little to my safety. This 
was yet but a present and temporary security ; a respite, not a repiieve, 
from the fate that impended ovt-r me. It was important, theretore, to 
learn, if possible, from that bewildered creature, the means which 
should have led to my escape i'rom the house ; and if she was still 
willing and competent to become my guide. I'he first step had been 
accidentally viccomplished ; but here it seemed that my progress was 
to lind its tCTmination. All the past, except that horrible and distant 
part of it over whicli she bro' dtd, had utterly lapsed again from her 
memory, like words traced upim uater. The examination only lasted 
for a moment, but sufficed to convince mc of this unwelcome result. 
What then, indeed, could have been expected from the unccrt.iin and 
intermitting intelligences of a m.aniac ? I wondered how I could 
have built up a single hope on so slippery a foundation. 

It was now too late to arraign my tolly or bewail its consequences ; 
a few minutes would recall the robber to consciousness, and those 
were all that would allow me to seek, or avail myself of any passage 
for retreat. Although no other entrance was immediately api)arent, it 
was obvious that this chamber must have some other one than the 
panel by which I had so unexpectedly arrived ; and this conclusion 
proved to be correct. 

There was a trap-door, in one corner, for communication witn 
beneath. To espy it — to grasp the ring — to raise it up — were the 



Sfi THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

transactions of an instant ; but no sooner was it thrown open, than 

my e irs were assailed by a sudden uproar of snunds from below. The 
noise seemed at tirst to be the mere Bacchanalian riot of a drunken 
banditti ; but a continued attention m.ide me inter()ret ditTereiulv of 
the tumult. whi< h now se'-med to partake K ss of the mirth of carousal, 
than ot the violence and voices of some serious affray. The distance 
of the sounds, which came from the further part of the house, pre- 
cluded an accurate jud:^ment of their nature. Had the banditti 
quarrelled amongst themselves, and proceedcel to IjIows ? The 'dis- 
onier and distraction incident to such a tumult could not but be highly 
iavourable to my purpose ; and I was just on the point of sieL)|)in:j 
through the aperture, when the ruffian behind me, as if aroused by the 
uproar, sprang up on his feet, rushed past me with a speed, that 
seemed to be urged by alarm, and bounded through the trap-door. 
The room beneath was in darkness, so that 1 was unable to dis- 
tinguish his course, which his intimate knowledge of the place, never- 
theless, enabled him to pursue with ease and certainty. 

As soon as his footsteps were unheard, I followed, with less speed 
and celerity. I might, indeed, have possessed myself of the lamp 
wiiich stood upon the table, but a light would infallibly have betrayed 
nie, and I continued to grope mv way in darkness and ii;norance to 
the lo-.\er chamber. An influx oi sound, to the left, denoted an open 
door, and directing my course to that quarter, I louiid that it led into 
a narrow pass ig '. As yet I had seen no ligiit ; l)ut now a cool gush 
of air seemed to promise that a few steps onward I should meet with 
a window. It proved to beonl>' a loop-liole. 'Ihe noise as I advanced 
had mea.nwhile become more and more violent, and was now even 
nc omp mied by irregular discharges of pistols. My vicinity to the 
scene of contest made me hesitate. I could even distin.;uish voices, 
and pirtially understood the blasphemi-s and imprecations that were 
most loudly uttered. I had before attriliuteii this tumult to a brawling 
contention amongst the inmates themselves, but now the indications 
seemed to be those of a more serious strife. The disciiarges of fire- 
arms were almost incessant, and the shouts and cries were like the 
cheers of onset and battle, of fury and anguish, 'ihe banditti had 
doubtless been tracked and assaulted in their den ; and it became 
necessary to consider what course in such a case it was the most 
p' udent for me to adopt. Should 1 seek lor some place of conceal- 
ment, and there await the issue of a contest, which would most 
probably terminate in favour of justice .''— or ought 1 not rather to 
hasten and lend all my energies to the cause? I still held in my hand 
the dagger, of whicii I had possessed myself; but could it be hoped 
that thus ini'ierfectly armed, if armed it might be called, my feeble aid 
could essentially contribute to such a victory .-' 

The decision was as suddenly as unexpectedly resohed. A familiar 
voice, which I could not mistake, tnough loud .md raving far aiiove its 
natural pitch, aniidst a clamour ot fifty others — struck on my ear; and 
no other call was necessary to precipitate my steps tovards the sc ne 
of action. I had yet to traverse some passages, « hich the increase 
of light enabled me to do more readily. The smoke, the din, the 
Hashing rerieciions along the walls, now told me that 1 was close upon 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 673 

the strife ; and in a few moments, on turning an abrupt angle, I had 
it in all its confusion before me. 

The first and nearest object that struck me was the figure of the 
innkeeper himself, apparently in the act of reloading his piece. His 
bi.ok w<is towards me, but I could not mist. ike his tall and muscular 
frame. On hearing a step beiiind him, he turned hastily round, dis- 
charged a pistol at my head, and then disappeared m the thickest of 
the tumult. The ball, however, only whizzed past my ear, but not 
harmless, for immediately afterwards I felt some one reel against me 
from behind, clasp me for an instant by the shoukhrs, and then roll 
doA'nwards to the floor. The noise, and the exciting interest which 
hur-ied me hither had hindered me from perceiving that I was followed, 
and I turned eagerly round to ascertain who had become the victim of 
tlie mis-directed shot. It was the ruffian's own daughter, the unhappy 
maniac herself, whose shattered brain had thus received from his hand 
the last pang it was destined to endure ; a single groan was all that 
the poor wretch had uttered. I telt an inexpressible shock at this 
horrid gatastroplie. I was staimd with her l)lood, particles of her 
bram even adhered to my clothes; and I was glad to escape from the 
horror excited by the harrowing spectacle, by plunging into the chaos 
before me. Further than of a few moments, during uhich, ho-vever, 
I had exchanged and parried a number of blows and thrusts, I have 
no recollection. A spent ball on the rebound struck me directly on 
the forehead, and laid me insensible, under foot, amidst the dying and 
the dead. 

When 1 recovered, 1 found myself lying on a bed— the same, by a 
strange coincidence, that 1 had rdready occupied ; but the faces around 
me, though w.irlike, were friendly. My first eager inquiries, as soon 
as 1 could speak, were for my friend Antonio, tor it was indeed his 
voice that 1 had recognised amidst the conflict, but I could obtain no 
direct answer. Sad and silent looks, sighs and tears, only, made up 
the terrible response. He was then slain ! Nothing but death indeed 
would have kept him at such a moment from my pilU>vv. It availed 
nothing to me that the victory had been won, that .heir wretched 
adversaries were all prisoners or destroyed ; at such a price, a thousand 
of such victories would iiave been dearly purchased. If I could have 
felt any const>lation in his death, it would have been to learn that hia 
arm had first amply avenged in blood the murder of the Condd— 
that the innkeeper had been cleft by him to the heart — that numbers 
of the robbers had perished by his heroic hand : but I only replied 
to tlie tidings with tears for my friend, and regrets that I had not died 
vvuh him. How cruelh, by his going before me, had the sweet beiiel 
of our youth been falsified ! Was it possible that I had survived ■ 
perhaps to see the grass grow over his head ; and to walk alone upon 
the eartli, wiien he siiould be nothing init a little dust.-* Why had » 
l:)een spaied ? others could convey to Isabelle the afflicting inteHi_;enc^ 
that she had no longer a father or a lover ; and in such an overwhelm- 
ing dispensation, siie could well forego tlie poor and un.ivailiiijj 
consolations of a friend. 

Such were my natural and desponding feelings, on contemplating 
tlie loss ol my beloved friend; — but ncA' and indispensable dutiei 

2 U 



674 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

recalled the energies of my mind, and diverted me from a grief whicb 
would else have consumed me. The last s.icred rites rerrain'd t > be 
pertormed for the dead ; and although the fate of the Connd niigiit 
readily be divined, it was necessary to establish its rert.dwty by the 
di-'Covery of his remains. The prisoners who were questioned on this 
point maintained an obstinate silence ; and the researches of the 
military had hitlierto bern unavailing, except to one poor wreich, 
whom they rescued from extreme suffering and probable death. 

I have related the disappearance ot my servant Juan, and my 
suspicions as to the cause of his absence were found to have verged 
nearly on the truth. He had saved himself, it appeared, frcjiti 
immediate danger, by a feigned compliance with the invitations of the 
banditti to enrol himself in their mimbt rs ; but as a precaution or a 
probation, he had been bound hand and foot, and consigned to a 
gairet till I should have been first disposed of. The poor fellow was 
dreadfully cramped in his limbs by the tightness of the ligatures, and 
was nearly half dead with cold and affright, when he was thus oppor- 
tunelv discovered ; but no sooner had he revived, and comprehended 
the object of our search, than his memory supplied us with a clue : — 
the wine barrels ! The house had been narrowly investigated ; but 
these cellars, by some iiasty omission, had been overlooked. 

I resolved to lead this new inquisition myself. Juan's sickening and 
disgustful recollections, which now pointed his suspicions, uould not 
let him be present at the examination ; but he directed us by such 
minute particulars, that we had no difficulty in finding cur way to the 
spot. There \\ere other traces had they been necessary for our 
guidance: stains of blood were seen on descending tlie stairs and 
across the lloor, till they terminated at a large barrel or tun, which 
stood first of a range of several others on the opposite side of the cellar. 
Here then stood the vessel that contained the object of our search. 
My firm conviction th.it it was so, made me see, as through the wood 
itself, the mutilated appearance which I had conceived of my ill-fated 
uncle. The horrible picture overcame me ; — and whilst I involun- 
tarily turned aside, the mangled qu.nters of a human body, and finally 
the dissevered head, were drawn forth from the infernal receptacle ! 
As soon as I dared turn my eyes, they fell upon the fearful spectacle; 
but I looked in vain for the lineaments I had expected to meet. The 
remains were those of a middle-aged man ; the features were quite 
unknown to me ; but a profusion of long blaclc hair told me at a 
glance, that this was not the head of the aged Condd. Neither could 
this belong to the old man who had i ecu alluded to by the maniac as 
having been str.mgied. Oi;r search must, therefore, be extended. 

The neighbouring barrel frem its sound was empiy. and the next 
likewise ; but the third and last one, on being struck, gave indications 
of being occupied : perhaps, by contents as horrible as those of the 
first. It Wis, however, only half filled with water. There was still a 
smaller cellar, communicating witii the outer one by a narrow arched 
passage ; but on examination, it proved to h.ive been applied to iis 
original and le:4itiinate purpose, fi)r it contained a considerable quantity 
of wiue. Every recess, every nook, was carefully inspected , the floors 



THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 67$ 

In particular were minutely examined, but they supplied no appearance 
of halving been recently disturbed. 

This unsuccessful result nlmost begot a doubt in me, whether, 
indeed, tliis place had been the theatre of th;- imputed tragedy ; my 
strongest belief had been founded on the words of the maniac, in 
allusion to the old mm who had been strangled ; but her story pointed 
to no determined period of time, nnd mi-ht refer to an occurrence of 
miny years b'ck. Surely the police and the military. Antonio cer- 
tainly, had been led hither by some more perfect information. I h .d 
neglected, hitherto, to posse-s myself of the particulars which led to 
their attack on the house ; but the ansAers to my inquiries tended in 
no way to throw any light upon the fate of the Conde. Antonio, in 
his pro-ress through the mouiitains. liad f .lien in with a party of the 
provincial mdiiia, who were scouring the country in pursuit of the 
predatory bands that infested it : and the capture of a wounded robber 
had furnished them with particulars which led to their attack upon 
the inn. i he dying wretch had been eagerly interrogated by Antonio, 
as to his knowledL;e of the transactions of his fellows; but though he 
could obtain no intelligence of the Conde, his imnetuous spirit m ide 
him readily unite himself with an expedition against a class of men, 
to whom he confidently attributed the old nobleman's mysterious 
disappearance. The mournful sequel 1 have related. His venge- 
ance was am ly but dearly sated on the innkeeper and his blood- 
thirsty associates ; — but the fate of my uncle remained as doubtful as 
ever. 

The discovery was reserved for chance. One of the troopers, in 
shifting some litter in the stables, remarked that the earth and stones 
beneath appeared to have been recently turned up : the f ict was 
immediately communicated to his officer, and 1 was summoned to be 
present at this new investigation. The men had already begun to 
dig when I arrived, and some soiled fra<;ments of clothes whic:h they 
turned up already assured them of the nature and the nearness of the 
deposit. A few moments' more labour sufficed to lay it bare ;■ and 
then, by the torchlight. I instantly reco:-;nised the gre) hairs and the 
features of him of whom we were in search. All that remained of my 
uncle lay before me ! The starting and blood-distended eyes, the 
gapmg mouth, the blackness of the face, and a livid mark round the 
neck, confirmed the tale of the m miac as to the cruel mode of his 
death. May I ne\ er gaze on such an object again I 

Hitherto, the excitement, the la'jour, the uncertainty of the search 
had sustained me: but now a violent re-action took p/lace, a reflux of 
all the horrors I had witnessed and endured rushed over me like a 
flood ; and f >r some time I raved in a state of \\vi\\ delirium. I was 
igain 1 lid'in bed, and in the interv al of my repose, preparations were 
made for our departure. The bodies of the slain robbers and militia- 
men were promptly interred, and after securing all the portable effects 
of any value, w liich the soldiers were allowed to appropriate ns a S''oil, 
rho house was ordered to be fired, as affording too elii^ible a refuge 
and rendezvous for such desperate associations. At my earnest re- 
quest, a separate ^^rave had been provided for the remains of the 
unfortunate maniac, which were commiLted to the earth with all the 



676 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 

decencies that our limited time and means could afford. The spot 
had bten chosen at the foot of a tall pine, in the re>ir of the house, 
and a small cross carved in the baik of the ttee was the only memoiial 
of tins ill-starred girl. 

These cares, speedily executed, occupied till dnybre;ik, and just at 
sunrise we conunenced our m.irch. A hiirse, left masierless by the 
death of one of the troopers, was assigned to me ; two others were 
more mournfully occupied by the bodies of Antonio and the Condt?, 
each covered with a coarse sheet ; and the captive robbers followtd, 
bound, with their faces backward, upon the innkeeper's mults. The 
innkeepers wife was amongst the prisoners, and her loud lamentations, 
breaking out afresh at evtry few paces, prev.iiled even over the 
boisterous merrim'^nt of the troopers, and the low-muttered impreca- 
tions of the banditti. When, from the rear, I looked upon this wild 
procession, in the cold grey light of the morning winding down the 
mountains, that warlike escort, tliose two horses, with their funereal 
burthens, the fierce scowling faces of the ))risoners, confronting me ; 
and tiien turned back, and distinguished the t;ill pine-iiee, and saw 
the dense colimin of smoke soaring upward from those ancient ruins, 
as from some altar dedicated to vengeance, the whole past ;ippeared 
to me like a dream ! My mind, stunned by the magnitude and 
number of events which had liieen crowded into a single night's ^pace, 
refused to believe th.it so bounded a j ciiod had sufficed for sucli 
disproportionate effects; but recalled again and again every scene 
and every fact, — as if to be convinced by the vividness of the repeti- 
tions, and the fidelity of the details, — of a foregone reality. I could 
not banish or divert these thoughts : ail the former horrors were 
freshly dramatised before me; the images of the innkeeper, of the 
maniac, of Juan, of Antonio, were successively conjured up, and acted 
their parts anew, till all was finally wound up in the consummation 
that riveted my eyes on those two melancholy burthens before me. 

But I will not dwell here on those objecis as I did then. An hour 
or two after sunrise we entered a town, where we delivered up to jus- 
tice those miserable \\ retches, who were afterwards to be seen impaled 
and blackening in the sun throughout the province. And here also 
my own progress, for three long months, was destined to be im[ieded. 
Oilier lips than mine conveyed to Isibelle the dismal tidings with 
which I w .8 charged ; other hands th in mine assisti.d in paying to the 
de.id their last pious dues. Excessive fatigue, griet, horror, and a ne- 
glected wound, generated a raging fever, from which, with diffii ulty, 
and by slow degrees, 1 recovered,— alas ! only to find myself an alien 
on the earth, without one tie to attach me to the life I had so unwill- 
ingly regained !..... 

I have only to speak of the fate of one more person connected with 
this history. In the Convent of St * * * at Madrid, there is one 
who, by the peculiar sweetness of h; r disposition, and the superior 
sanctity of her lite, has obtained the love and veneration of all her pure 
sisterhood. She is called Sister Isabelle. The lines of an early and 
acute sorrow are deeply engraven on her brow, but her life is placui 
and serene, as it is holy and saint-like ; and her eyes will neither weej), 
aor her bosom heave a sigh, but wlien she recurs to the memorials oi 



THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLY HERMIT. 677 

this melancholy story. She is now nearly ripe for heaven ; nnd may 
iier l:)liss there be as endless and perfect, as here it was troubled and 
fearfully hurried to its close 1 



THE MIRACLE OF THE HOLY HERMLT. 

IN my younger days, there was much talk of an old hermit of great 
sanctity, who lived in a rocky c:ive near Nanles. He had a \ery 
reverend grey beard, which reaclud down to his middle, where his 
body, looking like a pismire's, was almost cut in two by the tightness 
of a siout leathern girdle, which he wore probably to restrain his 
hunger, during his \o\\x and frequent abstinences. His nails, besides, 
had grown long and crooked like the talons of a bird ; his arms and 
legs were bare, and his lirown garments very coarse and ragged. He 
never tasted flesh, but fed upon iierbs and roots, and dr mk notiiing 
but water ; nor ever lodged anywhere, winter or summer, but in his 
bleak rocky cavern ; above all, it was his p >inful custom to stand i'or 
hours together with his arms extended, in imitation of the holy cross, 
by way of penance and mortificrtion lor the sins of his body. 

After many years spent in these austerities, he fell ill, tqw.irds the 
autumn, of a monal disease, whereupon he was constantly visited by 
certain Benedictines and Cordeliers, wiio had convents in the neighhour- 
hood, not so much as a work of charity and merc\', as that they were 
anxious to obtain his body, for they made sure that many notiiile 
miracles might be wrought at his tomb. Accordingly, they hovered 
about his death-bed of le.ives. like so many ravens when they scent a 
prey, but more je.dous of e ch other, till the pious hermit's last breath 
at length took fli'ht towards the skies. 

As soon as he was dead, the two friars who were watching him. ran 
each to their sever.il convents, to report the event, liie Coruelier, 
being swiftest of foot, was the rirst to arrive with his tidings, when he 
found his bretliren just sitting down to their noontide meal ; whereas 
when the Benedictines heard the news, they were at prayers, which 
gave them the .advantage. Cutting tlie service short, therefore, with an 
abrupt amen, they ran instantly in a body to the cave ; but before 
they could well fetcii their breath, the Cordeliers also came up, finishing 
their dinner as tliey ran, and both parties ranged themselves about the 
dead hermit. Father Gonieta, a Cordelier, and a very portly man, 
then stepping in front of his fraternity, addressed them as fnHows : — 

"My dear brethren, we are too late, as you see, to receive the pas.";- 
ing breath of the holy man ; he is quite dead and cold. Put your 
^ictuals out of your hands, therefore, and with all due reverence a-sist 
me to carry these saintly relics to our convent, that tliey miy repose 
amongst his fellnw Cordeliers." 

The Bentdictines murmuring ^t this expression ; "Yea," added he, 
" I may truly call him a Cordelier, and a rigid one ; witness his 
lea til rn girdle, which, for want of a rope, he hath belted round his 
micUlle, ahiiDst to the cutting asunder of his holy budy. 'rake,uu 1 s ly, 
these precious relics ;'' whereupon his foIlowers,obeyinghis commands, 



678 THE MIRACLE OF 

and the Benedictines resisting tiiem, there arose a Hvel)' strusfp^le, as if 
between so iiKi'iy Greeks and Trojans, over the dead body. The two 
fraternities, however, bein^ equ.iUy matched in strength, they seemed 
more likely to dismember the hermit, than to carry him off on either 
side, wlierefore Father Gomet;i, by dint of entreaties and struL^gling, 
procured a truce. "It was a shameful thing," he told them, " for 
servants of the Prince of Pe.ice, as they wer.-, to mingle in such .in 
affray ; and Ijesidos that, the country people being likely to witness it, 
the scandal of such a broil would do more liarm to them, jointly, th.in 
tlie possession ot the body could be a benefit to either of their ordtrs." 
The religious men, of both sides, concurring in the prudence of this 
advice, tht y left a friar, on either part, to take ch.irge of the dead body, 
and then adjourned, by common consent, to the house of the Bene- 
dictines. 

The chapel being very lar'::e, and convenient for the purpose, they 
went thither to carry on the debaie ; and, surely, such a strange kind 
of service had never been performed before within its w.dls. Father 
Comet. 1, standing beside a painted window, which made his fice of all 
manner of hues, began in a pompous discourse to assert the claims of 
his convent ; but Friar John quickly interrupted him ; and another 
brother contradicting Friar John, all the monks, Benedictines as well 
as Cordeliers, were soon talking furiously together at the same 
moment. Their Babel-ar-uments, therefore, were balanced a.;ainst 
each other. At last, Brother Geronimo, who had a sliriU voice h'.ce a 
parrtit's, leaped u.on a beach, and called out for a horing ; and, 
moreover, clapping two lar^'e missals together, in the manner of a pair 
oi castanets, he dinned the other noise-mongers into a temporary 
silence. As soon as they were quiet — " Tnis squabble," said he, "may 
easily be adjusted. As for the hermit's body, let those have it, of 
w hatever order, who have ministered to the good man's soul, and given 
him the extreme unction." 

At this proposal there was a general silence throughout the chapel ; 
till Father Gometa, feeling what a scandal it would be if such a man 
had died withiut tlie last sacrament, affirmed that he had j^iven to 
him the wafer ; and Father Phili.ipo, on behalf of the Benedictines, 
declared he had performed the same office. Thus, that sernied to 
have been superfluously repeated, which, m truth, had been altogether 
omitted. Wlierefore Geronimo, at his wit's end, pro[)Osed tnat the 
superiors should draw lots, and had actually cut a slip or two out of 
the margin of his iisalter for the purpose ; but I'^ather Gometa relied 
too mucli on ins own subtlety, to refer the issue to mere chance. In 
this extremity, a certain Capuchin happening to be present, they be- 
sought him, as a neutral man and impartial, to lead them to some 
decision ; and after a little thinking, he was so fortunate as to bring 
them to an acceptable method of arbitration. 

Tlie matter being thus arran.^^'ed, the Cordeliers returned to their own 
convent, where, as soon as they arrived. Father Gometa assembled 
th m all in the refectory, and s;ioke to them in these words : 

"You have heard it settled, my brethren, that the cl.iims of oui 
seveial convents are to be determined by pro|iinquity to the cave. 
Vow I know that our crafty ri\als will omit no artifice that may show 



THE HOL Y HERtflT. 679 

their house to be the nearest ; wherefore, not to be wilfully duped, 1 
am reschcd to make a proper sub';tr.iciion trom our own measuie- 
nients. I for.see, not\vitlistandiPt,% lh.it this measuring bout will lend 
to no accommodation ; for thf reckonin;_;s on both sides being f.ilse, will 
certainly beget a fresh cavil. Go, therehsre, some of you, very warily, 
and bring liiiher the blessed body of the hermit, which, by God's grace, 
will save a i;re it deal of indecent dissension, and then tiie Benedictines 
miy measure as unfairly as thev please." 

The br thren, approving of this design, chose out four of the stoutest, 
amongst whom was Friar Fr.mcis, to proceed on this expedition ; and 
in the meantime, the event fell out as the superior had predicted. The 
adverse measurers, encountering on ihtir task, began to wrangle ; and 
after belabouring each other with their rods, returned with complaints 
to their separate convents ; but Fri.'.r Francis, with his comrades, 
proceeded prosperously to the cave, where they found the dead bi dy 
ol the hermit, but nvither of the truant friars who had been appointed 
to keep watch. 

Takmg the carcase, therefore, without any obstruction, on their 
shoulders, they began to wend homewards very mtrnlv, till coming to 
a by-piace in the middle of a wood, they agreed to set down their 
burden awhile, and relresh themselves after their labour. One of the 
friars, however, of wenktr nerves than the rest, objected lO the com- 
panionship of the dead hermit, who with his long white beard and his 
raggtd garments, which stirred now and then in the wind, was in truth 
a very awful object. iJragging him a-^ide. therefore, into a dark 
solitary thicket, they returned to sit down on the grass ; and pulling 
out then" flasks, which contained some very passable wine, the\ beg.in 
to enjoy tiiemselves without stint or hindrance. 

Tlie last level ra\s of the setting sun were beginning to shoot 
through the horizontal boughs, tin-ing the trunks, which at noon are 
all shcidy and obscure, with a flaming gold ; but the merry friars 
thought it prudent to wait till nightfall before they ventured with 
their charge beyond the friendly shelter of the wood. As soon, there- 
fore, aa it was so safely dark that they couhi barely distinguisn each 
other, they returned to the thicket for the body ; but to their horriljle 
dismay, the dead hermit had vanished, nobod\ knew whither, leaving 
them only a handful of his grey beard, as a leg-.cy, with a remnant or 
two of his tittered garments. At this discovery, the friars were in 
despair, and smne of them began to weep, dreading to go back to the 
convent ; but Friar Francis, being in a jolly m(..od, put them in better 
he.irt. 

*' Why, what a whimpering is this," said he, "about a dead body ? 
The good father, as you know, was no ibp, and did not smell over 
purely ; for which reason, doubtless, some hunj^ry devil of a wolf has 
relieved us from the labour of bearing him any farther. There is no 
such heretic as your wolf is, who would not be likely tc bog;.^le at his great 
piety, though 1 marvel he did not object to his mca.reness. I tell you, 
take courage, then, and trust to me to clear you, who have brought 
j'ou out of fi!iy sucli scrapes." 

The fri.irs, knowing that he spoke reasonably, soon comforted then> 



68o THE WIDOW OF G ALICIA. 

selves; and running back to the convent, they repaired, all trtmMinjj, 

into the presence of the superior. 

F.ither GometT, inquiring easterly if they had brought tht! body, Friar 
Fr.tncis answered boldly that ihey hid not. " But here," said he, " is 
a iiart of his most reverend beard, and also his mantle, which, like 
Elisha, he dropped upon us as he ascended into he iven ; for as the 
piou-. Elisha was translated into the skies, even so was the holy hermit, 
excepting these precious relics — being torn out of our arms, as it were, 
b\ a whirlwind." Anon appealing to his comrades, to confirm his 
fabrication, they declared that it happened with them even as he related; 
and moreover, that a bright and glorious light shining upon them, as 
it did upon Saul and his company, when they journeyed to Damascus, 
had so bewildered them, that they had not yet recovered their perfect 
senses. 

In this plausible mailner, the friars got themselves dismissed with- 
out any penmce ; but Father Gometa discredited the story at the 
bottom of his heart, and went to bed in great trouble of mind, not 
doubting that they had lost the body by some negligence, and that on 
the morrow it would be found in the possession of his rivals, the Bene- 
dictines. The latter, however, proving as disconcerted as he was, he 
took comfort, and causing the story to be set down at large in the 
records of the convent, and subscribed with the names of the four 
friars, he had it read publicly on the next Sunday from the pulpit, 
with an exhibition of the beard and the mantle, which ))rocured a great 
de 1 of wonder and reverence amongst the con>^reg aion. 

The Benedictines at hrst were vexed at the credit which was thus 
lost to their own con\ent : but being afterwards pacified with a portion 
of the grey hairs and a shred or two of the brown cloth, they joined in 
the propigation of the story; and the country people believe to this 
day in the miracle of the holy hermit. 



THE WIDOW OF G A LI CI A, 

THERE lived in the Province of Galicia, a lady so perfectly benu- 
titul, that she was called by travellers, and by all indeed who 
beheld her, the Flower of Spain. It too frequently happens that such 
handsome women are but as beautiful weeds, useless or even noxious ; 
whereas with her excelling charms, she possessed all those virtues 
wliich should properly inhabit in so lovely a person. She had there- 
fore many wooers, but especially a certain old knight of Castile 
(l)ulky in person, and with hideously coarse features), who. as he was 
exceedin.L;ly wealthy, made the most tempting otiers to induce her to 
become his mistress, and failing in that object by reason of her strict 
virtue, he proposed to espouse her. But she, despising him as a bad 
and brutal man, ivhich was his character, let f.iU the blessing of her 
affection on a young gentleman of small estate but uood reputation in 
the province, and being speedily married, they lived together for three 
/ears very happily. Notwithstanding this, the abominable knight did 



THE WIDOW OF G ALICIA. 681 

not cease to persecute lier, till being rudely checked by her husband, 

anil threatened with his vengennce, he desisted for a season. 

It happened at the end of the third \ear of their marriage, thnt her 
husband bein.i^ unhappily murdered on his return from Madrid, whither 
he had been called by a lawsuit, she was left without protection, and 
from the failure of tlie cause much str.iitened, besides, in her means of 
living. This time, tiierefoie, the knight thought favourable to renew 
his miportunities, and neitiier respecting the sacredness of her grief, 
nor her forlorn state, he molested her so continually, that if it had not 
been for the love of her fatherless child, she would ha^ e been content 
to die. For if the knight w.is odious before, he was now thrice hate- 
ful from his undisguised brutality, and above all execrable in her eyes, 
from a suspicion that he h id procured the assassination of her dear 
husband. She was obliged, however, to confine this belief to her own 
bosom, for her persecutor was rich and powerful, and wanted not the 
means, and scarcelv the will, to crush her. Many families had thus 
suffered by his malignity, and therefore she only awaited the arr,m;_;e- 
ment of certain private affairs to withdraw secretly, with her scanty 
maintenance, into some remote village. There she hoped to be free 
from her inhuman suitor ; but she was delivered from this trouble in 
the meantime by his death, yet in so terrible a manner, as made it 
more grievous to her than his life had ever been. 

It wanted, at this event, but a few days of the time when the lady 
proposed to remove to her country-lodging, t. iking with her a maid 
who was called Maria ; for since the reduction of her fortune, she had 
retained but this one servant. Now, it hapr.ened that this woman 
going one day to her lad\'s closet, which was in lier bedchamber, — 
so soon as she had opened the door, there tumbled forward the dead 
body of a man ; and the police being summoned by her shrieks, they 
soon recognised the corpse to be that of the old Castilian knii^ht, 
though the countenance was so blackened and disfigured as to seem 
scarcely human. It was sufficiently evident that he had perished by 
poison ; whereupon the unhappy lady, being interrogated, was unable 
to ,;ive any account of the matter ; and in spite ot her fair reputation, 
and alth'Ugh she ai'pe led to God in belialt ot her innocence, she was 
thrown into the common g lol along with other reputed murderers. 

The criminal addresses of the deceased kni:.;ht being generally 
known, many persons who believed in her tjuilt still pitied her, and 
excused the cruelty of the deed on account of the persecution she had 
suffered from that wicked man : — but these were the most charitable 
of her judges. The violent death of her husband, which before had 
been only attributed tp robbers, was now assigned by scandalous oer- 
s<ms to her own act ; and the whole province was shocked that a lady 
of her fair seeming, and of such unblemished character, should have 
brought so heavy a disgrace upon her sex and upon human nature. 

At her trial, therefore, the court was crowded to excess ; and some 
few generous persons were not without a hoiie of her acquittal ; but 
the same facts, as before, being proved upon oath, and the lady still 
producing no ju-tihcaiion, but only asserting her innocence, there 
r<.mained no rea>,on.ible cause for dou'jting of her guilt. The jjuIjUc 
advocate then began to plead, af his pain ''r duty comm.mded him 



682 THE WIDOW OF GALICIA. 

for her condemnntion ; — he urged the facts of her acquaintsnce and 
b ul tL-ims with tlic murdered knight ; and, moreover, ccrlaiii expii>- 
sions of hatred which she had been he ird t'^utier ag.iinst him. '1 ht' 
very scene and miinner of his destruction, he said, s|Joke to her un 
doubted prejudice, — the first a private closet in iier own bedchamotr, 
— and tiie 1 ist by prison, which was hkiiy to be employed by a woin.m, 
ratlier than any weapon of violenc -. Afterwards, lie interpre.'ted to tlie 
same concki-ion the aljrupt flight of the waiting-maid, who, hke a 
guiky and tearful : ccumplice, h;id disappeared whenever her mistress 
\v.is arrested ; and. tinally, he recalled the still mysterious fate of her 
late husl'jand : su th"??t all who heard him began to bend their brows 
solemnly, and some reproachfully, on the unhappy object of his dis- 
course. Still she upheld herself, rirmly and calmly, only troin time to 
time lifting her eyes towards heaven; but when she heard the death 
of her dear husband touched upon, and in a m.innerthat laid his blood 
to her charge, she stood forward, and placing her right hand on the 
head of her son, cried : — 

"So witness God, if ever I shed his father's blood, so may this, his 
dear child, shed mine in vengeance." 

Then sinking do\vn fr'm exhaustion, and the child weeping bitterly 
over her, the beholders were again touched with coinpassion, almost 
to the doubting of her guilt ; but the evidence being so strong against 
her, she was immediately condemned by the Court. 

It was the custom in those days for a svonian who had committed 
murder to be first strangled by the hanginan. and then burnt to ashes 
ill the midst of the market-place ; but before this horrible sentence 
could be pronounced on the lady, a fresh witness was moved by the 
j;iace of God to come forw.ird m her behalf. This was the waiting- 
\voman, Maria, who hitherto had remained disguised in the body of 
the Court ; Ijut now being touched with remorse at her lady's unmerited 
distresses, she stood up on one of the benches, and called out earne^tly 
to he allov.ed to make her confession. She then related, that she her- 
seli had been prevailed upon, by several great sums of money, and still 
more by the artful and seducing promises ol the dead knight, to 
secrete him in a closet in her lady's chamber ; but that of the catise of 
his death she knew nothing, except that upon a shelf she had placed 
some sweet cakes, mixed with arsenic, to poison the rats, and that the 
kaight, being rather glutttmous, mi,;ht have eaten of them in the dark, 
and so died. 

.At this probable explanation, the people all shouted one shout, and 
the lady's innocence being acknowledged, the sentence v\as ordered to 
be reversed ; but she reviving a little at the noise, and being told of this 
providence, only clapped her hands ; and then, in a few words, com- 
mending her son to the guardianship ol good men, .and s.iyiiig th X she 
coe.ld never survive the shame of her unworthy reproach^ she ended 
wnh a deep sigh, and expired upon the spou 



«3 



THE GOLDEN CUP AND THE DISH OF STL VER. 

EVERY one knows what a dog's life the miserable Je"s lead nil 
over the vvc^ld, but especially amongst the Turk';, who plunder 
them of their riches, r.nd slay tlum on the most frivolous pretences, 
'ihus, if they acquiie nny wealth, they are obliged to hide it in holes 
and corners, and to snatch their scnnty enjoyments by stealth, in re« 
compense of the buficts and contumely of their turbaned oppressors. 

In this manner lived Yussuf, a Hebrew ot i^reat wealth and wisdom, 
but, outwardly, a i/oor beg:^arly druggist, inhaiiiting, with his wife, 
Anna, one of the meanest houses in Constantinople. The curse of his 
ration had often fallen bitterly upon his head ; his great skill in medi- 
cine procuring him some uncertain favour from the Turks, but on the 
failure of his remedies, a tenfold proportion of ill-usnge and contempt. 
In such casts, a hundred blows on the soles of his feet were his 
common payment ; whereas on the happiest cures, he was often dis- 
missed with eniptv hands and some epithet of disgrace. 

As he was sitting one day at his humble door, thinking over these 
miseries, a janizary came up to him, and commanded Yussuf to go 
with him to his AL;a or explain, whose palace was close at hand. 
Yussufs gold immediately weighed heavy at his heart, as the cause of 
this summons ; howt ver, he arose obediently, and followed the soldier 
to the Aija, who was sitting cross-leggtd on a handsome carpet, with 
Ills long pii.e in his mouth. The Jew, casting himself on his knees, 
with his tace to the floor, began, like his bretliren, to plead poverty in 
excuse for the shabbine~s of his appearance ; but the Aga, interru; ting 
him, (proceeded to compliment him in a flattering strain on his reputa- 
tion for wisdom, whic h he said had made him desirous of Ids conversa- 
tion. He then ordered the banquet to be brought in ; whereupon the 
shives nut down belore them some wine, in a -olden cup, and some pork, 
in a dish of silver ; both of vshich were forbidden things, and thereiore 
made the Jew wonder very much at such an entertainment. The Aga 
then pointing to the refreshments addressed him as follows : — 

" Yussuf, they say you are a very wise and learned man, and have 
studied deeper than any one the mysteries of nature. I have sent 
for you, therefore, to resolve me on ceitain doubts concerning this fle-h, 
and this liquor before us ; the porl< being as aVjommalile to your 
religion, as the wine is unto ours. But I am especially curious to know 
the reasons why your propliet should have forbidden a meat, which by 
report of the Christians is both savoury and wholesome ; wherefore I 
will have you to proceed first with that argument ; and, in order that 
you may not discuss it negligentlv, I am resolved in case you fail to 
ju.-^tifv the prohibition, that you siiall empty the silver dish before yon 
stir from the place. Ne\ ertheless, to show you that I am equally 
candid, I promise, if vou shall thereafter i rove to me the unreasonable- 
ness of the injunction ag::inst wine, I will drink off this golden goblet 
as frankly before we pan." 

The terrified Jew understood very readily the purpose of this trial ; 
however, alter a secret prayer to Moses, he began in the best way he 
Could to plead against the abominable dish that was steaming undei 



684 THE GOLDEN CUP AND THE DISH OF SILVER. 

his nostrils. He failed, notwithstanding, to convince the sceptical Aga, 
who, therefore, commanded him to eat up the pork, and then bcL^in 
his discourse in favour of the wine. 

The sad Jew, at this order, endeavoured to move the obdurate Turk 
by his tears ; but the Aga was resolute, and drnwing his crooked 
cimetar, declared, "that if Yussuf did not instantly fall to, he wuuld 
smite his head from his shoulders." 

It was time, at tliis thre t, for Yussuf to commend his soul unto 
heaven, tor in Turkey the Jews wear their heads very loosely ; how- 
ever, by dint of fresh tears and supplications he obt.nned a n spite of 
three days, to consider if he could not bring forward any further argu- 
ments. 

As soon as the audience was over, Yussuf returned disconsolatrly 
to his house, and intormed his wife Anna of what had passed between 
him and tlie Aga. The poor woni.m foresaw clearly how the matter 
would end : for it was aimed only at the confiscation of their riches. 
She advised Yussuf, therefore, instead of racking his wits for fresh 
arjjuments, lo carry a bag of gold to the Aga, who condescended to 
receive his reasons ; and after another brief discourse, to grant him a 
respite of three days longer. In the same manner, Yussuf procured 
a further interval, but somewhat de.irer ; so that in despnir at losing 
his money at this rate, he returned for the fourth time to the palace. 

The Aga and Yussuf l:)eini^ seated as before, with the mess of pork 
and the wme Ijetween them, tiie Turk asked, if he h.id hrou:4ht any 
fresh arguments. Tlie doctor replied, "Alas ! he liad alrendy discussed 
the subject so often, that his reasons were quite exhausted ;" v\ here- 
upon the flashing < imetar leaping quickly out of its scabbard, the 
trembling Hebrew plucked the loathsome dish towards hun, and with 
many struggles beg ui to eat. 

It cost him d thousand wry faces to swallow the first morsel ; and 
from the 1 ughter that came from behind a silken screen, they were 
observed by more mockers besides the Ag.i, who took such a cruel 
pleasure in the amusement of his women, that Yussuf was compelled 
lo proceed even to the licking of the dish. He was then suffered to 
depart, without wasting any lo'^ic upon the cup of wine, which after 
his loaths ane meal he would have been quite happy to discuss. 

I guess not how the Jew consoled himself besides for his nivoluntary 
sin, but he bitterly cursed the cruel Aga and all his wives, who could 
not amuse their indolent lives with thur dancing-girls and tale-tellers, 
but made merry at the expense of his soul. His wife Joined iieart'Jy 
in his imprecations ; and both puttii^g ashes on their heads, thcy 
mourntd and cursed together till the sunset. There came no jani2,.ry, 
however, on the morrow, as they exjiecied ; but on the eighth day, 
Yussuf was summoned agiin to the .Aga. 

The Jew at this message began to weep, m. king sure, in his mind, 
that a fresh dish of pork was prepared for him : however, he repaired 
obediently to the palace, where he was told, that the favourite lady of 
the harem was indisposed, and the Aga commanded him to prescribe 
for her. Now, the Turks are very jealous of their mistresses, and 
disdain, especially, to expose them to the eyes of infidels, of whom the 
Jews are held the most vile ; — wherefore, when Yussuf begged to see 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE. 685 

his pntient, she was allowed to be brought fonh only in a long white 
vt il, ih.'it reached down to her feet. The Aga, notwithstanding tl.e 
folly of such a proceeding, forb.ide her veil lo be lifted . neither would 
he pi rmit the Jew to converse with her, but ci-mmanded hnn on pain 
of tit-atli to return home and prepare his iTiedicmes. 

Ihc wi etched dc-ctor, groaning all the way, v\ent hack to his house, 
without wasting a thought on what drugs he should administt^r on so 
hopeless a case ; but considering, instead, the sur;jical practice of the 
Aga, which separated so many necks. However, lie told his wite of 
the new jeo: ardy he was placed in for the Moorish Jezebel. 

"A curse take her !" said Anna; "give her a dose of poison, and 
let her perish before his eyes." 

"Nay."' an-wered the Jew, "that will be to pluck the sword down 
upon our own heads ; nevertheless, I will cheat the infidel's concubine 
with si'nie wine, which is equally damnable to their souls ; and m<iy 
God visit upon their conscience the misery they have enforced upon 
mine ! " 

In this bitter mood, going to a filthy hole in the floor, he drew out 
a flask of schiraz ; and bestowing as many Hebrew curses on the 
liquor as the Mussulmans are wont to utter of blessings over their 
medicines, he tilled up some physic bottles, and repaired with them 
to the palace. 

And now let the generous virtues of good wine be duly lauded for 
the happy sequel ! 

The ilinesb of the favourite, being merely a languor and melancholy, 
proceeding from the voluptuous indolence of her life, the draughts of 
Yussuf soon dissipated her chagrin, in such a miraculous manner, that 
she sang and danced more gaily than any of her slaves, l^he Aga, 
therefore, inste.id of beheading Yussuf, returned to him all the purses 
of gold he had taken ; to which the grateful lady, besides, added a 
valuable ruby ; and, thenceforward, when she was ill, would have none 
but the Jewish physician. 

Thus, Yusbuf saved both his head and his money ; and, besides, 
convinced the Aga of the virtues of good wine ; so that the golden cup 
was finally emptied, as well as the disl> of silver. 



THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE, 

EVERY one, in Seville, has heard of the famous robber Bazardo; 
but, as some may be ignorant of one of the most interesting in- 
cidents of his career, I propose to relate a part of his history as it is 
attested in the criminal rec; rds of that city. 

This wicked man was born in the fair city of Cadiz, and of very 
obscure parentage ; but the time which I mean to speak o! is, when he 
returned to Se\ ille, after being some years absent in the West<rn 
Indies, and with a fortune which, whether justly or unjustly acquirea, 
suffi< ed to aft'ord him the rank and apparel of a gentleman. 

It vvas then, as he strolled up one of the by-streets, a few days aftel 
hib arrival, that he was attracted by a very poor woman, gating mosJ 



686 THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE, 

anxiously snd eagerly at n shon-window. She was lean and fnmi'shed, 
and clad in very ra.ijs, 'nd made altogether so miserable an apiienrance, 
that even a robber, with the least grace of char.fy in his hi'art, would 
bav'- instantly relieved her « itli an alms. The robber, however, con- 
tented hims. If with observing her motions at a (iistance, till, at last, 
casting a fearful glanre behind her, the poor famished wretch suddenly 
d.islied her withered arm thiou. h a pane of the window, and made ofi( 
with a small coarse loaf. But whtther fn ni the feel icness of hun.er 
or affright, she ran so slowly, it cost Baz.rdo but a moment's pursuit 
to oxertake her, and seizing her by the arm. he btga.n, thief as he was, 
to upbraid her for makiiv^ so free with another's property. 

The poor woman made no reply, but uttered a short shrill scream, 
and threw the loaf, unuerceived, through a liitle casement, and tliea 
turning a face full of hunger and fear, besought l^az rdo, for charity's 
sake and the love of Cod, to let her go free. She was no daily pilferer, 
she told him, but a distressed woman, who could relate to him a storv, 
wliich, if it did not break her own heart in the utterance, must needs 
ccunmand his pity. But he was no wav moved by her appeal ; and 
the baker coming up and insisting on the re^toiation of the loaf, to 
which she made ni; answer but bv her tears, they begin to drag her 
away between them, and with as much violence as if she had been no 
such skeleton as she appeared. 

By this time a crowd had assembled, and beholding this 
inhumanity, and le<irniiig besides the trifling amount of the theft, 
they i:)cstowed a thousand cur-es, and some blows too, on liazardo 
and the baker. These harci-hearted men, however, maintained 
their hold ; and the nffice of police being close by, the poor wretched 
cre;,tuiip was deiiverid to the ^-uard, and as the ma;jistrates were then 
sitting, the cause was presently exanimed. 

During the accusation of Bazardo the poor woman stood utterly 
silent, till coming to speak of her aljusive speech, and of the resistance 
\* liich she had made to her ca. ture, she suddenly interru[)ted him. and 
liiiing up her shrivelled hands and arms towards heaven, inquired if 
iliose poor bones, which had not strength enough to work for her live- 
lihood, were liktly weajions for ihe injury of any human creature. 

•At this pathetic .ippeal there was a general murmur of indi:4nation 
against the accuser, and the charge being ended, she was advised that 
a- only one witness h.d de|j"sed ag.nnst her, she could not be 'con- 
victed, except upon her own confession. But she, scorning to shcime 
(lie truth, or to wrong even her accuser, for the people wcie ready to 
believe that he h:(d impeached her falsely, freely admitted tlie theft, 
ridding, that under the like necessity she must needs sin again ; and 
witii that, hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed out, " My children ! 
—Alas ! for my poor children ! " 

At this exclamation the judge e\'en could not contain his tears, but 
told her with a bre'ken voice that he would hear nothing further to her 
own prejudice ; expressing, moreover, his regret, tha; the world pos- 
sessed so little ch.irity, a^ not to have prevented the mournful crime 
which she had connnitted. Then, desiring to know mnre parti, ulars 
of her condition, she gratefully thanked iiim, and iim loring the biess« 



rHE TRA GED Y OF SE VILLE. 68 7 

\x\'^ of God upon all those wlio had shown so much sweet charity oai 
her beh It, she be;^an to relate ht-r nieianrholy history. 

"She was th- daughter, she said, of a wealthy inerchint at Cadiz, 
and h d been instructed in all accomplishments that belong to a lady. 
That having listened unhapuiiy to the flatteries of nn officer in the 
King's guard, she liad m.;rried him, and besto\ied upon him all her 
fortune ; but th:it instead of being grateful for these benefits, he had 
exp.nded htr property in riotous living ; and, finally, deserted her ^ith 
her two children, to the care of Him tliat feedeth the ravens.'"' Fdeie 
her voice becoming more tremulous, and almost inaudible, she excused 
herself, sa\ ing, that for two whnle davs she had not tasted of ;inv focd, 
and must needs have perished, but tiiat by God's good gr.u:e siie had 
tnen caught a rat, which served her, lo.ithsome as it was, for a meal. 

Hereupon, the judge was exceedingly shocked, and immediately 
give orders for some refreshments; but she declined to touch them, 
saying, that whilst her children were in want she could not eat ; but 
\Mth his L^racious permission would only rest her head upon her hands. 
And so she sat down in silence, whilst all the people contempl.ited 
her with pity, still beautiful in her misery, and reduced from a luxurious 
condiiion to so dreadful an extremitv. 

In the meantime, the officers were despatched by the judge's direc- 
ti(m to bring hither the children : and after resting for a little while, 
the unfortunate lady resumed her story. " For t^o years, she said, she 
had maintained herself and her little ones by her skill in embroidery 
and other works of art ; but afterwards, falling ill from her over-exer- 
tion and concealed sorrows, her strength had deserted her; nnd litterly, 
haMn.i; no other resource, she h :d been obliged to sell her raiment. 
At !a-<t, she had nothing left but the poor ra s she at i resent wore, be- 
sides her wedding ring ; and that she would sooner die than part with. 
For I still live," she added, "in the ho e of my husband's return 
to me, — and then, may God forgive thee, Bazardo, as I will forgive 
thee, for all this cruel misery." 

At the mf ntion of this name, her accuser turned instantly to the 
complexion of marble, and he would fain have made his escape from 
the court; but the crowd pressing upon him, as if willing that he 
should hear the utmost of a misery for which he had shown so little 
compassion, he was compelled to remain in his place. He flittered 
himself, notwithstanding, that by reason of the alteration in his features, 
from his living in the Indies, he should still be unrecognised bv the 
oiiject of his cruelty; whereas, the <:ap;ain of the vessel which had 
brought him over was at that moment iiresent ; and wondering th it 
his ship had come safely with so wicked a wretch on board, he 
instantly denounced Bazardo by name, and pointed him out to the 
indignation of the people. 

At this discovery there was a sudden movement amongst the crowd ; 
;md in spite of the presence of the judge, and of the entr'-aties of the 
wi etched iady herself, tlie robber would have been torn into as many 
pieces as there v ere persons in the court, except for the tim ly inter- 
position of the guard. 

In the meantime, the officers who had been s'-nt' for the children 
h .d eiiierca by the opposite side 01 the hall, and making way towards 



688 THE TRAGEDY OF SEVILLE. 

tlie judge, and depositing somewhat upon the table, before it could b« 
perceived what it was, they covered it over with a coarse Hnen cloth. 
Ait'.Twards, being interroi^ated, tliey declared, that having proceeded 
wiiitiier they had been directed, tiiey heard sounds of moaning, and 
so:)bing, and linientaiions, in a child's voice. 'I'hat entering upon 
this, and beholding one child bending over another and wee; ing 
bitterly, they -supposed the latter to have died of hunger ; but on goin4 
nearer, they discovered that it had a large wound on the left side, and 
that it was tlien warm and breathing, but was since dead. They 
pointed, as they said this, to the body on the tablr, where the blood 
was now beginning to ooze visibly through the linen cloth. As for 
the manner of its being wounded, or the author, they could give no 
evidence ; not only because the house was otherwise uninhabited, bul 
that the remaining child was so affrighted, or so stricken with grief, 
that it could give no account of the occurrence. His cries, indeed, at 
this moment, resounded from the adjoining corridor ; and the mother, 
staring wildly around her, and beholding that which lay upon the table, 
suddenly snatched away the cloth, and so exposed the body of the 
dead child. It was very lean and famished, wiih a gaping wound on 
its left bosom ; from wliich the blood trickled even to the clerk's desk, 
so that the paper, which contained tlie record of the lady's sorrows, 
was stained with this new sad evidence of her misfortunes. 

The people at this dreadful sight uttered a general moan of horror, 
and the mother made the whole court re-echo with her shrieks ; 
insomuch, that some from mere anguish ran out of the hall, whilst 
others stopped their ears with their hands, her cries were so long and 
piercing. At last, when she could scream no longer, but lay as one 
dead, the judge rose up, and commanding the other child to be brought 
in, and the dead body to be removed out of sight, he endeavoured, 
partly by soothing, and partly by threats, to draw forth the truth of 
what had been hitiierto an incomprehensible mystery. 

For a long time, the poor child, being famished and spiritless, made 
no answer, but only sobbed and trembled, as if his little joints would 
fall asunder; till at last, being re-assured by the judge, and having 
part iken of some wine, he began to relate what had happened. His 
mother, early in the morning, had promised them some bread ; but 
being a long time absent, and lie and his little brother j^rowing more 
and more hungry, they lay down upon the floor and weot. Tliat whilst 
thc-y cried, a sm-ll loaf — very small indeed,, was thrown in at the win- 
dow ; and both being almost famished, and both struggling together to 
obtain it, he had unwardy stabbed his little brother with a knife which 
he held in his hind. And witii that, bursting airesh into tears, he be- 
sou^^ht the judge not to hang him. 

All this time, the cruel B iz irdo remained unmoved ; and the judge 
reproaching him in the sternest language, ordered him to be imprison 
ed. He then lamented afresh, that tiie dearth of Christian charitv ana 
benevolence was accountable for such horrors as they had witnessed ; 
and immediately the people, as if by consent, be^an to offer money, 
and some their purses, to the unfortunate; lady. But she heedless of 
^liem all, and ex«l.iiming that she would sell her dead child for do 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMANCE, 689 

money, rushed out into the street ; and there repeating the same wordsi, 
and at last sitting down, she expired a martyr to hunger and grief, on 
the steps of her own dwelling. 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMANCE. 

MANY persons in Castille remember the old Knight Pedro da 
Peubla, — surnamed The Gross. In his person, he was emin- 
ently large and vulgar, with a most brutal countenance ; and in his 
^disposition so coarse and gluttonous, and withal so great a drunkard, 
thai if one could believe in a transmigration of beasts, the spirit of a 
swine had passed into this man's body, for the discredit of human 
nature. 

Now, truly, this was a proper suitor for the Lady Blanche, who, be- 
sides the comeliness of ht r person, was adorned with all those accom- 
plishments which become a gentlewoman : she was moreover gifted 
with a most excellent wit ; so that she not only played on the guitar 
and various musical instruments to admiration, but also she enriched 
the melody with most beautiful verses of her own composition. Her 
father, a graat man, and very proud besides of the nobility of his blood, 

. >'as not insensible of these her rare merits, but declaring that so pre- 
cious a jewel deserved to be richly set in gold, and that rather than 
marry her below her estate he would devot« her to a life of perpetual 
celibacy, he watched her with the vigilance of an Argus. To do them 
justice, the young gentlemen of the province omitted no stratagem to 
gain access to her presence, but all their attempts were as vain as the 
grasping at water ; and at length her parent becoming more and more 

; jealous of her admirers, she was confined to the solitude of her own 

^^(fliamber. 

..^•, It was in this irksome seclusion that, reading constantly in novels 
and such works which refer to the ages of chivalry, she becanje sud- 
denly smitten with such a new passion for the romantic, talking con- 
tinually of knights and squires, and stratagems of love and war, that 
her father, doubting whither such a madness might tend, gave orders 
that all books should be removed from her chamber. 

It was a grievous thing to think of that young lady, cheerful and 
beautiful as the day, confined thus ^ike a wild bird to an unnatural 
cage, and deprived of the common delights of liberty and nature. At 
length, that old Knight of Castille, coming, not with rope-ladders, nor 
disguised in woman's apparel, like some adventurers, but with a costly 
equipage, and a most golden reputation, he was permitted to lay his 
irtige person at her feet, and, contrary to all expectation, was regarded 
with an eye of favour. 

At the first report of his reception, no one could sufficiently marvel 
how, in a man of such a countenance, she could behold any similarity 
with tiiose brave and comely young cavaliers, who, it was thought, nm^t 
have risen out of their graves in Palestine to behold such a .wooer ; bxl 
when they called to mind her grievous captivity, and how hopeless it 
was that she could be freed by any artifice from the vigilance of het 

2 X 



%> 



THE LADY IN LOVE WITH ROMANCER 



<■' father, they nlmost forgave her that she was ready to obtain her free- 
■ dom by bestowing' her hand on a first cousin to the devil. A certain 
gnllant gentleman, however, who was named Castello, was so offended 
by the news, that he would have slain the Knight, without any concern 
for the consequences to himsdf ; but the Lady Blanche, hearing of his 
design, made shift to send him a message, that by the same blow he 
would wound her quiet for ever. 

In the meantime her father was overjoyed at the prospect of so rich 
a son-in-law as the Knight ; for he jvas one of those parents, that would 
bestow their children upon Midas himself, notwithstanding that they 
should be turned into sordid gold at the first embrace. In a transport 
of joy, therefore, he made an unusual present of valuable jewels to his 
daugliter, and told her withal, that in any reasonable request he would 
instantly indulge her. This liberal promise astonished Blanche not a 
little ; but after a moment's musing she made answer. 

" You know, sir," she said, " my passion for romance, and ho\» 
heartily I despise the fashion of these degenerate days, when every 
thing is performed in a dull formal manner, and the occurrence of to-day 
is but a pattern for the morrow. There is nothing done now so ro- 
mantically as in those deli,L;htful times, when you could not divine, in 
one hour, the fate that should befal you in the next, as you may read 
of in those delicious works of which you have so cruelly 'deprived m i, 
I beg, therefore, as I have so dutifully consulted your satisfaction in 
, the choice of a husliand, that you will so far indulge me, as to leave 
the manner of our mnrriage to mv own discretion, which is, that it may 
be on tlie model of that in the iiistory of Donna Eleanora, in which 
novel, if you remember, the lady being confined by her f ither as I am, 
contrives to conceal a lover in her closet, and making their escape to- 
gether by a rope-ladder, they are happily united in marriage." 

"Now, by the Holy Virgin !" replied her father, "this thing shall 
never be ;" and foreseeing a thousand difficulties, and above all that 
the Knight would be exceeding adverse to his part in the drama, he 
repehted a thousand times over of the books which had filled her with 
such preposterous fancies. The lady, notwithstanding, was resolute ; 
and declaring that otherwise she would kill herself rather than be 
crossed in her w ill, the old miser reluctantly acceded to her scheme. 
Accordingly it was concerted that the ne.xt evening, at dusk, the 
Knight should come and play his serenade under her lattice, \\ here- 
iip>>n, hearing his most raxi^hin'g music, she was to let fall a ladder of 
ropes, and so admit him to her chamber ; her father, moreover, 
making his nightly rounds, she was to conceal her lover in her closet, 
'and then, both descending by the ladder together, they were to 
"take fl'i;.;ht on a pair of fleet horses, which should be ready at the 
garden gate. 

"And now," said she, " if you fail me in the smallest of these par* 
tirulars, the Knight shdl never have of me so much as a ring may 
enibr.ice," and with this injunction they severally awaited the com- 
pletion of their drama. 

The next ni-ht, the Lady Blanche watched at her window, and in dua 

' season the Knight came with his twangling guitar ; but, as if to maka 

her sport of him for the last time, she affected to mistake his music. 



THE LAD Y IN LO VE WITH ROMANCH 691' 

•'Ah!" she cried, " here is a goodly serenade to sing one awake 
with ; I prithee go away a mile hence, with thy execrable voice, or 1 
will have thee answered with an arqiiebuss." 

All this time the Knight fretted himself into a violent rage, stamping 
and blaspheming all the blessed saints ; but when he heard mention 
of the arquebuss, he made a motion to run away, which constrained 
the lady to recal him, and to cast him down the ladder without any 
further ado. It was a perilous and painful journey for him, you may 
be sure, to climb up to a single story ; but at length with great labour 
he clambered into the balcony, and in a humour that went nigh to mar 
the most charming romance that was ever mvented. In short, he 
vowed not to stir a step further in the plot : but Blanche, telling him 
thaf for this first and last time he must needs fulfil her will, which 
would so speedily be resolved into his own ; and seducing him besides 
with some little tokens of endearment, he allowed himself to be locked 
up in her closet. 

The lady then laid herself down in bed, and her father knocking at 
the door soon after, she called out that he was at liberty to enter. 
He came in then, very gravely, with a dark lantern, and asking if his 
daughter was asleep, she replied that she was just on the skirts of a 
dose. 

" Ah," quoth he, after bidding her a good night, "am I not a good 
father to humour thee thus, in all thy fantasies 1 In verity, I have for- 
gotten the speech which I ought here to deliver ; but pray look well 
to thy footing, Blanche, and keep a firm hold of the ladder, for else thou 
wilt have a deadly fall, and I would not have thee to damage my 
carnations." 

Hereupon he departed ; and going back to his own chamber, he 
could not help praising God that this troublesome folly was so nearly 
at an end. It only remained for him now to receive the letter, which 
was to be sent to him, as if to procure his fatherly pardon and bene- 
diciion ; and this, after a space, being brought to him by a domestic, 
he read as follows : — • 

" Sir, — If you had treated me with loving-kindness as your daughter, 
I should most joyfully have reverenced you ns my father : but, as you 
have always carried a purse where instead you ought to have worn a 
human heart, I have made free to bestow myself where that seat of 
love will not be wanting to my happiness. As for the huge Knight, 
whom you have thought fit to select for my husband, you will find him 
locked up in my closet. For the manner of my departure, I would not 
willingly have made you a party to your own disappointment ; but 
that, from your excessive vigilance, it was hopeless for me to escape 
except by a ladder of your own planting. Necessity was the mother 
of my invention, and its father was love. Excepting this periormance, 
I was never romantic, and am not now ; and, therefore, neither scorn- 
ing your forgiveness, nor yet despairing at its denial, I am going to 
settle into that sober discretion which I hope is not foreign to my 
nature. Farewell. — Before you read this I am in the arms of my dear 
Josef Castello, a gentleman of such n^erit, that you will regain more 
honnur with such a son, than you can have lost in your undutiful 
daughter, '• BLANCHli." 



-.692 THE EIGFITH SLEEPER OF EPHESUS, 

On readino[ this letter, the old man fell into the most ungovernable 
rage, and releasin>i the Knight from the closet, they reproached each 
other so bitterly, and qunrrelled so long, as to make it hopeless that 
they could overtake the fugitives, even had they known the direction 
of their flight. 

In this pleasant manner, the Lady Blanche of Castille made het 
escape from nn almost hopeless captivity and an odious suitor ; and 
the letter which she wrote is preserved unto this day, as an evidence 
of her wit. But her father never fori;ave her elopement ; and when 
he w;is stretched even at the point of death, being importuned on this 
subject, he made answer that, "he could never forgive her, when he 
had never forgiven himself for her evasion." And with these words oa 
his lips he expired. 



THE EIGHTH SLEEPER OF EPHESUS. 

IT happened one day, in a certain merry party of Genoese, that 
their conversation fell at last on the noted miracle of Ephesus. 
Most of the company treated the story of the Seven Sleepers ;is a 
pleasant fable, and many shrewd conceits and witty je^ts were 
passed on the occasion. Some of the gentlemen, inventing dreams 
for those drowsy personages, provoked much mirth by their allusions ; 
whilst others speculated satirically on the changes in manners, which 
they must have remarked after their century of slumber — all of the 
listeners being hi>;hly diverted, excepting one sober gentleman, who 
made a tiiousand wry faces at the discourse. 

At length, taking an opportunity to address them, he lectured them 
very si riiuisly in defence of the miracle, calling them so many heretics 
and inHdels ; and saying tliat he saw no reason why the history should 
not be believed as well as any other legend of the holy fathers. Then, 
after many otlier curious argununts, lie lirought the example of the 
dormouse, which sleeps throughout a whole winter, affirming, that the 
Eph'-sian Christians, being laid in a cold place, like a rocky cavern or 
a sepulchre, miijht reasonably have remained torpid for a hundred 
years. 

His companions, feigning themselves to be converted, flattered him 
on to proceed in a discourse which was so diverting, some of them 
renlrnishing his glass continually with wine — of which, tlirough talking 
till he became thirsty, he partook very freely. At last after uttering a 
volume of follies and extravagances, he drooped his head upon the 
table .ind fell into a profound doze ; during which interval, his mc^rry 
r.ompanions plotted a scheme against him, which they promised 
themselves would afford some excellent sport. Carrying him softly 
therefore to an upper chamber, they laid him upon an old bed of state, 
very quaintly furnished and decorated in the style of the (iotliic ages. 
Thence repairing to a private theatre in the house, which belonged to 
their entertainer, they arrayed themselves in some Bohemian habits. 
v.ry grotesque and fanciful, and dis;.:uised their faces with paint ; and 
then sending one of their number to keep watch in the bed-chamber 



THE EIGHTH SLEEPER OF EPHESUS. 693 

tliey awaited in this masquerade the awaking of the credulous 
sleeper. 

In an hour or thereabouts, the watcher, perceiving that the other 
began to yawn, ran instantly to his comrades, who hurr\ing up to tli.e 
chamber found their Ephesian sitting upright in bed, and wondering 
about him at its uncouth mouldering furniture. One of them then 
speaking for the rest, began to congratulate him on his revival out of 
so tedious a slumber, persuading him, by help of the others and a 
legion of lies, that he had slept out a hundred years. He thereupon 
asking them who they were, they answered they were his dutiful gnat- 
grandchildren, who had kept watch over him by turns ever since they 
were juveniles. In proof of this, they showed him how dilapidated the 
bed had become since he had slept in it, nobody daring to remove him 
against the advice of the physicians. 

" I perceive it well," said he, "the golden embroideries are indeed 
very much tarnished — and the hangings in truth, as tattered as any 
of our old Genoe-e standards that were carried against the Turks. 
These faded heraldries too, upon the head-cloth, have been thoroughly 
fretted by the moths. I notice also, my dear great-grandchildren, by 
your fjarments, how much the fashions have altered since my time, 
though you have kept our ancient language very purely, which is owing 
of course to the invention of printing. The trees, likewise, and the 
p. irk, I observe, have much the same appearance that I remember a 
century since — but the serene aspect of nature does not alter so con- 
stantly like our frivolous human customs." 

Then recollecting himself, ha began to make inquiries concerning 
his former acquaintance, and in particular about one Giacoppo Rossi 
• — the same wag that in his mummery was then standing before him. 
They told him he had been dead and buried, fourscore years ago. 

" Now, God be praised ! " he answered ; "for that same fellow was 
a most pestilent coxcomb, who, pretending to be a wit, thought himself 
licensed to ridicule men of worth and gravity with the most shameful 
buffooneries. The world must have been much comforted by his 
death, and especially if he took with him his fellow mountebank, 
Guidolphi, who was as laborious a jester, but duller." 

In this strain, going through the names of all those that were with 
him in the room, he praised God heartily that he was rid of such a 
generation of knaves and fools and profane heretics ; and then 
recollecting himself afresh. 

" Of course, my great-grandchildren," said he, " I am a widower .'"' 

His wife, who was amongst the maskers, at this question began to 
prick up her ears, and answering for herself, she said, 

" Alas ! the good woman that was tliy partner has been dead these 
seventy-three years, and has left thee desolate." 

At this news the sleeper began to rub his hands together very briskly, 
saymg, " Then there was a cursed shrew gone ; " whereupon his wife 
striking him in a fury on the cheek, she let fall her mask through this 
indiscretion : and so awaked him out of his marvellous dream. 



€94 



MADELINE. 

THERE lived in Toledo a young gentleman, so passionately loved 
by a young lady of the same city, that on his sudden decease 
she made a vow to tliink of no other ; and havin'ij neither relations nor 
friends, except her dear brother Juan, who was then abroad, she hired 
a small house, and lived almost the life of a hermit. Being young and 
handsome, however, and possessed besides of a plentiful fortune, she 
was much annoyed by the young gallants of the place, who practised 
so many stratagems to get speech of her, and molested her so contin- 
ually, that to free herself from their importunities, both now and for 
the future, she exchanged her dress for a man's apparel, and privately 
■withdrew to another city. By favour of her complexion, which was a 
brunette's, and the solitary manner of her life, she was enabled to 
preserve this disguise ; and it might have been expected that she would 
have met with few adventures ; but on the contrary, she had barely 
sojourned a montii in this new dwelling, and in this unwonted garb, 
when she was visited with still sterner inquietudes than in those she 
had so lately resigned. 

As the beginning of her troubles, it happened one evening, in going 
out a little distance, that she was delayed in the street by seeing a 
young woman, who, silting on some stone steps, and with scanty rags 
to cover her, was nursing a beautiful infant at her breast and weeping 
bitterly. At this painful spectacle, the charitable Madehne immediately 
cast her purse into the poor mother's lap, and the woman eagerly 
seizing the gift, and clasping it to her bosom, began to implore the 
blessing of God upon so charitable and Christian-like a gentleman. 
But an instant had scarcely been gone, when on looking up, and more 
completely discerning the countenance of her benefactor, she suddenly 
desisted. 

"Ah, wretch ! " she cried, "do you come hither to insult me? Go 
again to your false dice ; and the curse of a wife and of a mother be 
upon you !" Then casting away the purse, and bending herself down 
over her child, and crying, "Alas ! my poor babe, shall we eat from 
the hand that has ruined thy father ; " — she resumed her weeuing. 

The tender Madeline was greatly afflicted at being so painfully mis- 
taken ; and hastening home, she deliberated with herself whether she 
should any longer retain an apparel which had subjected her to so 
painful an occurrence ; but recalling her former persecutions, and 
trusting that so strange an adventure could scarcely befal her a second 
time, she continued in her masculine disguise. And now, thinking of 
the comfort and protection which her dear brother Juan might be to her 
in such troubles, she became vehemently anxious for his return ; and 
the more so, because she could obtain no tidings of him whatever. 
On the morrow, therefore, she went forth to make inquiry ; and 
forsaking her usual road, and especi dly the quarter where she had 
encountered with that unfortunate woman, she trusted reasonably to 
meet with no other such misery. 

Now it chanced that the road which she had chosen en this day led 



MADELINE. 695 

close beside a cemetery ; and just at the moment when she arrived 
by the gates, there came also a funeral, so that she was obliged to 
stand aside during the procession. Madeline was much struck by the 
splendour of the escutclicons ; but still more by the general expression 
of sorrow amongst the people ; and inquiring of a by-stander the 
name of the deceased : — "What !" said the man, " have ye not heard 
of the villanous murder of our good lord, the Don Felix de Castro? — • 
the hot curse of God fall on the wicked Cain that slew him !" and with 
that, he uttered so many more dreadful imprecations as made her 
blood run cold to hear him. 

In the meantime, the mourners one by one had almost entered ; and 
the last one was just stepping by, with her hands clasped and a coun- 
tenance of the deepest sorrow, when casting her eyes on Madeline, she 
uttered a piercing shriek, and pointing with her finger, cried, " That is 
he, that is he who murdered my poor brother ! " 

At this exclamation, the people eagerly pressed towards the quartet 
whither she pointed ; but Madeline, slirinking back from the piercing 
glance of the lady, was so hidden by the gate as to be unnoticed ; and 
the next man being seized on suspicion, and a great tumult arising, she 
•w-Ai, enabled to make her escape. "Alas ! " she sighed inwardly, " what 
sin have I committed, that this cruel fortune pursues me whithersoever 
I turn. Alas, what have I done;" and walking sorrowfully in these 
meditations, she was suddenly accosted by a strange domestic. 

'• Senor," he said, "my lady desires most earnestly to see you ; nay, 
you must needs come ;" and thereupon leading the way into an ancient, 
noble-looking mansion, the bewildered Madeline, silent and wondering, 
was introduced to a large apartment. At the further end a lady attired 
in deep mourning, like a widow, was reclining on a black velvet sofa ; 
the curtains were black, the pictures were framed also in black, and 
the whole room was so furnished in that dismal colour, that it looked 
like a very palace of grief. 

At sight of Madeline, the lady rose hastily and ran a few steps for- 
ward ; but her limbs failing, she stopped short, and rested with both 
hands on a little table which stood in the centre of the room. Her 
figure was tall and graceful, but so wasted, that it seemed as if it must 
needs bend to that attitude ; and her countenance was so thin and pale, 
and yet withal so beautiful, that Madeline could not behold it without 
tears of pity. After a pause, the lady cried in a low voice, '•' Ah, cruel, 
how could you desert me ! See how I have grieved for you ! " and 
therewith unb ading her hair, so that it fell alaout her face, it was as 
grey as in a u oman of four-score I 

" Alas ! " she said, " it was black once, when I gave ♦hee a lock 
for a keepsake ; but it was fitting it should chan;4e when thou hast 
changed ;" and leaning her face on her hands she sobbed heavily. 

At these words, the tender Madeline approached to console her; 
but the lady pushing her gently aside, exclaimed mournfully, " It is 
too late ! it is too late, now !" and then casting herself on the sofa, 
gave way to such a passion of grief, and trembled so exceedingly, that 
it seemed as if life and sorrow would part asunder on the spot. 
Madeline kneeling down, and swearing that she had never injured lier, 
besought her to moderate a transport \s\\\t\\ broke her heart only to 



696 MADELINE: 

gaze upon ; and the lady moving her lips, but unable to malce any 
reply, then drew from her bosom a small miniature, and sobbing out. 
" O Juan, Juan !" hid her face again upon the cushion. 

At sight of the picture, the miserable Madeline was in her own turn 
speechless ; and remembering instantly the beggar and the mourner, 
whose mistakes were thus illustrated by the unhappy lady — she com- 
prehended at once the full measure of her wretchedness. " Oh, Juan, 
Juan !" she groaned, "is it thus horribly that I must hear of thee !" 
and stretching herself upon the carpet, she uttered such piercing cries, 
that the lady, alarmed by a grief which surpassed even her own, 
endeavoured to raise her, and happening to tear open the bosom of 
her dress, the sex of Madeline was discovered. "Alas, poor wretch ! 
hast thou too been deceived," cried the lady, "and by the same false 
Juan?" and enfolding Madeline in her arms, the two unfortunates 
wept together for the space of many minutes. 

In the meantime, a domestic abruptly entered ; and exclaiming that 
the murderer of Don Felix was condemned, and that he had seen him 
conducted to prison, he delivered into the hands of his mistress a frag- 
ment of a letter, which she read as follows : — 

** Most dear and injured lady, — Before this shocks your eyes, your 
ears will be stung with the news that it is I who have killed your kins- 
man ; and knowing that by the same blow I h ive slain your peace, I 
am not less stained by your tears than by his blood which is shed. 
My wretched life will speedily make atonement for this last offence ; 
but that I should have requited your admirable constancy and affec- 
tion by so unworthy a return of cruelty and falsehood, is a crime that 
scorches up my tears before I can shed them ; and makes me so des- 
pair, that I cannot pray, even on the threshold of death. And yet, I 
am not quite the wretch you may account me, except in misery ; but 
desiring only to die as the most unhappy man in this unbippy world 
I have withheld many particulars which might otherwise intercede for 
me with my judges. But I desire to die, and to pass away from both 
hatred and pity, if any such befal me ; but above all, to perish from a 
remembrance whereof I am most unworthy : and when I am but Si 
clod, and a poor remnant of dust, you may happily forgive, for mortal- 
ity's sake, the many faults and human sins which did once inhabit it. 

" I am only a few brief hours short of this consummation : and the 
life which was bestowed for your misery and mine will be extinguished 
for ever. My blood is running its last course through its veins — and 
the light and air of which all others so largely partake, is scantily 
measured out to me. Do not curse me — do not forget that which you 
once were to me, though unrelated to my crimes ; but if my name may 
slill live where my lips have been, put your pardon into a prayer for 
my soul aj^ainst its last sunrise. Only one more request. I have a 
sister in Toledo who tenderly loves me, and Ix'lieves that I atn still 
abroad. If it be a thing possible, contirin her still in that happy de- 
lusion — or tell her that I am dead, but not how. As I have concealed 
my true name, I hope that this deadly reproach may be spared to her, 
and now from the very confines of the grave" 



MADELINE. 697 

It was a painful thing to hear the afflicted lady reading thus fnr bfr- 
twixt her groans — but the remainder was written in so wavering a hand, 
and withal so stained and blotted, that, lil<e the meaning of denth itself, 
it surpassed discovery. At length, "Let me go," cried Madeline, "let 
me go and lil)erate him ! If they mistalce me thus for my brother 
Juan, the gaoler will not be able to distinguish him from me, and in 
this manuer he may escape, and so have more years for repentance, 
and make his peace with God." Hereupon, wildly clapping her hands, 
as if for joy at this fortunate thcui;ht, she entreated so earnestly for a 
womanly dress that it was given to her, and throwing it over her man's 
apparel, she made the best of her way to the prison. But, alas ! the 
countenance of the miserable Juan was so changed by sickness and 
sharp anguish of mind, that for want of a more happy token she was 
constrained to recognise him by his bonds. Her fond stratagem there- 
fore would have been hopeless, if Juan besides had not been so reso- 
lute, as he was, in his opposition to her entreaties. She was obliged, 
therefore, to content herself with mingling tears with him till nii^ht, in 
his dungeon, — and then struggling, and tearing her fine hair, as though 
it had been guilty of her grief, she was removed from him by main 
force, and in that manner conveyed back to the lady's residence. 

For some hours she expended her breath only in raving and the 
most passionate arguments of distress, — but afterwards she became 
as fearfully calm, neither speaking, nor weeping, nor listening to what 
was addressed to her, merely remarking about midnight, that she hcaid 
the din of the workmen upon the scaffold — and which, though heard 
by no other person at so great a distance, was confirmed afterwards to 
have been a truth. In this state, with her eyes fixed and her lips mov- 
ing, but without any utterance, she remained till morning in a kind of 
lethargy— and therein so much more happy than her unfortunate 
companion, who at every sound of the great bell which is always tolled 
against the death of a convict, started and sobbed and shook, as if each 
stroke was made against her own heart. But of Madeline, on the 
contrary, it was noted that even when the doleful procession was pass- 
ing immediately under the window at which she was present, she only 
shivered a little, as if at a cool breath of air, and then turning slowly 
away, and desiring to be laid in bed, she fell into a slumber, as pro- 
found nearly as death itself. But it was not her blessed fate to die so 
quickly, although on the next morning the unhappy partner of her 
grief was found dead upon her pillow, still and cold, and with so 
sorrowful an expression about her countenance, as might well rejoice 
the beholder that she was divorced from a life of so deep a trouble. 

As for Madeline, she took no visible note of this occurrence, nor 
seemed to have any return of reason till the third day, when growing 
more and more restless, and at length wandering out into the city, she 
was observed to tear down one of the proclamations for the execution, 
which v;eie still attached to the walls. After this, she was no more 
seen in the neighbourhood, and it was feared she had violently made 
away with her life ; but by later accounts from Toledo, it was ascer- 
tained that she had wandered back, bare-footed and quite a maniac, 
to that city. 

She was for some years the wonder and the pity of its inhabitants, 



698 MASETTO AND HIS MAR E. 

and when I hnve been in Toledo with my Uncle Francis, I have seen 
tliis poor crazed Madeline, as they c.JIed her, with her long loose hair 
and her fme face, so p.de and thin, and so calm-looking, that it seemed 
to be only held alive by her large black eyes. She was always mild 
and gentle, and if you provoked it, would freely converse with you ; 
but oftentimes in the midst of her discourse, whether cheerful or sad, 
she would pause and sigh, and say in a different voice, "O Juan, 
Juan ! " and with these two words, simple though they be, she made 
every heart ache that heard her. 



MASETTO AND HIS MARE. 

IT is remarkable, and hardly to be believed by those who have not 
studied the history of superstition, what extravagant fables may 
be imposed on the faith of the vulgar people ; especially when such 
fables are rehearsed in print, which of itself has passed before now as 
the work of a black or magical art, and has still influence enough over 
ignorant minds, to make them believe, like Masetto, that a book of 
romances is a gospel. 

This Masetto, like most other rustics, was a very credulous man ; 
but more simple otherwise than country-folks commonly appear, who 
have a great deal of crafty instmct of their own, which comes to them 
spontaneously, as to the ravens and magpies. And whereas pastoral 
people are generally churlish and headstrong, and in spite of the 
antique poets, of coarse and brutal tempers, Masetto, on the contrary, 
was very gentle and mild, and so compassionate withal, that he would 
weep over a wounded creature like a very woman. This easy disposi 
tion made him liable to be tricked by any subtle knave that might 
think it worth his pains, and amongst such rogues there was none that 
duped him more notably than one Bruno Corvetto, a horse-courser, 
and as dishonest as the most capital of his trade. This fellow, observ- 
ing" that Masetto had a very good mare, which he kept to convey his 
wares to Florence, resolved to obtain her at the cheapest rate, which 
was by stratagem, and knowing well the simple and credulous char- 
acter of the farmer, he soon devised a plan. Now Masetto was very 
tender to all dumb animals, and especially to his mare, who was not 
insensible to his kindly usage, but pricked up her ears at the sound of 
his voice, and followed him here and there, with the sagacity and 
affection of a faithful dog, together with many other such tokens of uu 
intelligence that has rarely belonged to her race. The crafty Corvetto, 
therefore, conceived great hones of his scheme : accordinj^ly, having 
planted himself in the road by which Masetto used to return home, 
he managed to fall into discourse with him about the mare, wldch he 
regarded very earnestly, and tliis he repeated for several days. At last 
Masetto observing that he seemed very much affected when he talked 
of her, became very curious about the cause, and inquired ii it had 
ever been his good fortune to have such another good mare as his 
own ; to this Corvetto made no reply, but throwing his arms about 
Ihe mare's neck, began to hug her so lovingly, and with so many deep- 



MASETTO AND HIS MARE. {Sg^ 

drawn sighs, thai Masetto began to stare amnzinglv, and to cross him- 
self as fast as he could. The hypocritical Corvetto then turning away 
from the animal, — "Alas!" said he, ''this beloved creature that you 
see before you is no mare, but an unhappy woman, dis;-;uised in this 
horrible brutal shape by an accursed magician. Heaven only knows 
in what manner my beloved wife provoked this infernal malice, but 
doubtless it was by her unconquerable virtue, which was rivalled only 
by the loveliness of her person. I have been seeking her in this 
sliape, all over the wearisome earth, and now I have discovered her, 
I have not wherewithal to redeem her of you, my money being all 
expended in the charges of travelling, otherwise I would take her 
instantly to the most famous wizard, Michael Scott, who is presently 
sojournmg at Florence, and by help of his magical books mi.^ht 
discover some charm to restore her to her natural shape." Then 
clasping the docile mare about the neck again, he affected to weep 
over her very bitterly. 

The simple Masetto was very much disturbed at this story, but knew 
not whether to believe it, till at last he bethought himself of the village 
priest, and proposed to consult him upon the case ; and whether the 
lady, if there was one, might not be exorcised out of the body of his 
mare. The knavish Corvetto, knowing well that this would ruin his 
\\ hole plot, was prepared to dissuade him. " You know," said he, 
" the vile curiosity of our country-people, who would not fail at such 
a rumour to pester us out of our senses ; and, especially, they would 
torment my unhappy wife, upon whom they would omit no experiment, 
however cruel, for their saiisfaction. Besides, it would certainly kill 
her with grief, to have her disgrace so published to the world, which 
she cannot but feel very bitterly ; for it must be a shocking thing for 
a young lady who has been accustomed to listen to the loftiest praises 
of her womanly beauty, to know herself thus horribly degraded in the 
foul body of a bmte. Alas ! who could think that her beautilul locks, 
which used to shine like golden wires, are now turned by damnable 
magic into this coarse slovenly mane ; — or her delicate w hite hands 
— oh ! how pure and lily-like they were — into these hard and iron- 
shod hoofs ! " The tender-hearted Masetto beginning to look very 
doleful at these exclamations, the knave saw that his performance 
began to take effect, and so begged no more for the present, than that 
Masetto would treat his mare very kindly, and rub her teeth daily with 
a sprig of magical hornbeam, which the simple-witted rustic promised 
very readily to perform. He had, notwithstanding, some buzzing 
doubts in his head upon the matter, which Corvetto found means to 
remove by degrees, taking care, above all, to caress the unconscious 
niare whenever they met, and sometimes going half-privately to con- 
verse with her in the stable. 

At last, Masetto being very much distressed by these proceedings. 
he addressed Corvetto as follows : — " I am at my wit's end about this 
matter. I cannot find in my heart, from respect, to make my lady do 
any kind of rude work, so that my cart stands idle in the stable, and 
my wares are thus unsold, which is a state of things that I cannot ver" 
well afford. But, above all, your anguish whenever you meet with 
your poor wife is more than 1 can bear; it seems such a shocking and 



yoo MASETTO AND HIS MARE. 

unchristian-Iikc sin in me, for the sake of a little money, to keep ytr% 
both asunder. Take her, therefore, freely of me as a gift ; or if you 
will not receive her thus, out of consideration for my poverty, it shall 
be paid me when your lady is restored to her estates, and by your 
favour, with her own lily-white hand. Nay, pray accept of her with- 
out a word ; you must be longing, I know, to take her to the great 
wizard, Michael Scott ; and in the meantime I will pray, myself, to 
the blessed saints and martyrs, that his charms may have the proper 
effect." The rogue, at these words, with undissembled joy fell about 
the mare's neck ; and, taking her by the halter, after a formal parting 
with Masetto, began to lead her gently away. Her old master, with 
brimful eyes, continued watching her departure till her tail was quite 
out of sight ; whereupon, Corvetto leapt instnntly on her back, and 
without stint or mercy began galloping towards Florence, where he 
sold her, as certain Saxons are recorded to have disposed of their 
wives, in the market-place. 

Some time afterwards, Masetto repairing to Florence on a holiday, 
to purchase another horse for his business, he beheld a carrier in one 
of the streets, who was beating his jade very cruelly. The kind 
Masetto directly interfered in behalf of the ill-used brute,^which 
indeed, was his own mare, though much altered by hard labour and 
sorry diet,^and now got into a fresh scrape, with redoubled blows, 
through capering up to her old master. Masetto was much shocked, 
you may be sure, to discover the enchanted lady in such a wretched 
plight. But not doubting that she had been stolen from her afflicted 
husband; he taxed the carrier very roundly with the theft, who laughed 
at him in his turn for a madman, and proved by three witnesses that 
he had purchased the mare of Corvetto. Masetto's eyes were thus 
opened, but by a very painful operation. However, he purchased his 
mare again, without bargaining for either golden hair or lily-white 
hands, and with a heavy heart rode back again to his village. The 
inhabitants, when he arrived, were met together on some public 
business ; after which Masetto, like an imprudent man as he was, 
complained bitterly amongst his neighbours of his disaster. They 
made themselves, therefore, very merry at his expense, and the 
schoolmaster especially, who was reckoned the chiefest wit of the place. 
Masetto bore all their railleries with great patience, defending himself 
with many reasonable arguments — and at last he told them he would 
bring them in proof quite as wonderful a case. Accordingly, stepping 
back to his own house, he returned with an old tattered volume, wliich 
Corvetto had bestowed on him, of the "Arabian Nights," and began 
to read to them the story of Sidi Nonman, whose wife was turned, as 
well as Corvetto's, into a beautiful m ire. His neighbours laughing 
more lustily than ever at this illustration, and the schoolmaster crow- 
ing above them all, Masetto interrupted him with great indignatioa. 
" How is this, sir," said he, "that you mock me so, whereas, I re- 
member, that when I was your serving-man and swept out the school- 
room, I have overheard you teaching the little children concerning 
people in the old ages, that were halt men and the other half turned 
into horses ; yea, and showing them the effigies in a print, and what 
was there more impossible in this matter of my own mare?" Th« 



THE STORY OF MICHEL ARGENTI. 701 

priest interposing at this passage,, in defence of the schoolmaster, 
Maseito answered him as he had answered the pedagogue, excepting 
that instead of the Centaurs, he alleged a minicle out of the Holv 
Fathers, in proof of the powers of magic. There was some fresh 
laughing at this rub of the bowls against the pastor, who being a 
Jesuit and a very subtle man, began to consider within himself 
whether it was not better for their souls, that his flock should believe 
by wholesale, than have too scrupulous a faith, and accordingly, after 
a little deliberation, he sided with Masetto. He engaged, moreover, 
to write for the opinion of his College, who replied, that as sorcery 
was a devilish and infernal art, its existence was as certain as the 
devil's. 

Thus a belief in enchantment took root in the village, which in the 
end flourished so vigorously, that although the rustics could not be 
jugyled out of any of their mares, they burned, nevertheless, a number 
of unprofitable old women. 



THE STORY OF MICHEL ARGENTI. 

MICHEL ARGENTI was a learned physician of Padua but lately 
settled at Florence, a few years only before its memorable 
visitation, when the Destroying Angel brooded over that unhappy city, 
shaking out deadly vapours from its wings. 

It must have been a savage heart, indeed, that could not be moved 
by the shocking scenes that ensued from that horrible calamity, and 
which were fearful enough to overcome even the dearest pieties and 
prejudices of humanity ; causing the holy ashes of the dead to be no 
longer venerated, and the living to be disregarded by their nearest ties : 
the tenderest mothers forsaking their infants ; wives flying froni the 
sick couches of their husbands; a,nd children neglecting their 'dying 
parents ; when love closed the door against love, and particular selfish- 
ness took place of all mutual sympathies. There were some brave, 
humane spirits, nevertheless, that with a divine courrige ventured into 
the very chambers of the sick, and contended over their prostrate bodies 
with the common enemy ; and amoni^st these was Argenti, who led the 
way in such works of mercy, till at last the pestilence stepped over his 
own threshold, and he was beckoned home by the ghastly finger of 
Death, to struggle witn him for the wife of his own bosom. 

lma;^ine him then, worn out in spirit and body, ministering hopeless- 
ly to her that had been dearer to him than health or life ; but now, in- 
stead of an object of loveliness, a livid and ghastly spectacle, almost 
too loathsome to look upon ; her. pure flesh being covered with blue 
and mortiferous blotches, her sweet breath changed into a fetid vapour, 
and her accents expressive only of anguish and despair. These dole- 
ful sounds were a;-;gravated by the swings and festivities of the giddy 
populace, which, now the pestilence had abated, ascencied into the de- 
solate chamber of its last martyr, and mini;led with her dying groans. 

These ending on the third day with her life, Argenti was lett to his 
solitary grief, the only living person in his desolate house ; his servants 



702 THE STORY OF MICHEL ARGENTI. 

having fled during the pestilence,- and left him to perform eveiy office 
with his own hands. Hitherto the dead had gone without their ritts ; 
but he had the melancholy satisfaction of tliose sacred and decent 
services for his wife's remains, which during the hei:4ht of tne plague 
had been direfully suspended ; the dead bodies being so awfully 
numerous, that they defied a careful sepulture, but were thrown, by 
random and slovenly heaps, into i^rreat holes and ditches. 

As soon as was prudent after this catastrophe, his friends repaired 
to him with his two little children, who had fortunately been absent 
in the country, and now returned with brave ruddy cheeks and vi.^or- 
ous spirits to his arms ; but, alas ! not to cheer their miserable parent, 
who thenceforward was never known to smile, nor scarcely to speak, 
excepting of the pestilence. As a person that goes forth from a dark 
sick-chamber is still haunted by its glooms, in spite of the sunshine ; 
so, though the plague had ceased, its horrors still clung about the mind 
of Argenti, and with such a deadly influence in his thoughts, as it 
bequeaths to the infected garments of the dead. Tlie dreadful objects 
he had witnessed still walking with their ghostly images in his brain — 
liis mind, in short, being but a doleful lazaretto devoted to pestilence 
and death. The same horrible spectres possessed his dreams ; which 
he sometimes described as filled up from the same black source, and 
thronging with the living sick he had visited, or the multitudinous 
dead corses, with the unmentionable and unsightly rites of their inhu- 
mation. 

These dreary visions entering into all his thoughts, it happened 
often, that when he was sunmioned to the sick, he pronounced that 
their malady was the plague, discovering its awful symptoms in bodies 
where it had no existence ; but above all, his terrors were busy with 
his children, whom he watched with a vigilant and despairing eye; 
discerning constantly some deadly taint in their wholesome breath, or 
declaring that he saw the plague-spot in their tender faces. 'Ihus, 
watching them sometimes u|)on their pillows, he would burst into tears 
and exclaim that they were smitten with death ; in short, he regarded 
their blue eyes and ruddy cheeks but as the frail roses and violets that 
are to perish in a day, and their silken hair like the most brittle 
gossamers. Thus their existence, which should have been a blessing 
to his hopes, became a very curse to him through his despair. 

His friends, judging rightly from these tokens that his mind was im- 
paired, persuaded him to remove from a place which had been the 
theatre of his calamities, and served but too frequently to remind him 
of his fears. He repaired, therefore, with his children to the house of a 
kinswoman at Genoa ; but his melancholy was not at ail relieved by the 
thange, his mind being now like a black Sty;^ian pool that reflects 
not, except one dismal hue, whatever shitting colours are presented by 
the skies. In this mood he continued there five or six weeks, when 
the superb city was thrown into the greatest alarm and confusion. 
The popular rumour reported that the plague had been brought into 
the port by a Moorish felucca, whereupon the magistrates ordered that 
the usual precautions sh>)uld be observed ; so that althou:4h there was 
no real pestilence, the city presented the usual appearances of such a 
visitalioji. 



THE STORY OF MICHEL ARGENTI. 703 

These tokens were sufficient to aggravate the malady of Argenti, 
whose ilhisions became instantly more frequent and desperate, and his 
affliction almost a frenzy ; so tliat going at night to his children, he 
looked upon them in an agony of despair, as thoui^'h they were already 
in their shrouds. And when he gazed on their delicate rnimd cheeks, 
like ripening fruits, and their fair arms, like sculitured marbles, en- 
twining each other, 'tis no marvel that he begrudged to pestilence the 
horrible and loathsome disfigurements and changes which it would bring 
upon their beautiful bodies ; neither that he contemplated with horror 
the painful stages by which they must travel to their premature graves. 
Some meditations as dismal I doubt not occupied his incoherent 
thoughts, and whilst they lay before him so lovely and calm-looking, 
made him wish that instead of a temporal sleep, they were laid in 
eternal rest. Their odorous breath, as he kissed them, was as sweet 
as flowers ; and their pure skin without spot orbUmish : nevertheless, 
to his gloomy fancy the corrupted touches of Death were on them 
both, and devoted their short-lived frames to his most lYateful inflic- 
tions. 

Ima,gine him gazing full of these dismal thoughts on their faces, 
sometimes smiting himself upon his forehead, that entertamed such 
horrible fancies, and sometimes pacing to and fro in the chamber with 
an emphatic step, which must needs have wakened his little ones if 
they had not been lapped in the profound slumber of innocence and 
childhood. In the meantime the mild light of love in his looks, 
ch.inges into a fierce and dreary fire ; his sparkling eyes, and his lips 
as p.iUid as ashes, betraying the desperate access of frenzy, which like 
a howling demon passes into his feverish soul, and provokes him to 
unnatural action : and first of all he plucks away the pillows, those 
downy ministers to harmless sleep, but now unto dearh, with which 
crushing the tender faces of his little ones, he thus dams up their gentle 
respirations before they can utter a cry ; then casting hiniselt with 
horrid fervour upon their bodies, with this unfatheilike embrace he 
enfolds them till they are quite breathless. After which he lifts up the 
pillows, and, lo ! there lie the two murdered babes, utterly quiet and 
still, — and with the ghastly seal of death imprinted on their waxen 
cheeks. 

In this dreadful manner Argenti destroyed his innocent children, — • 
not in hatred, but ignorantly, and wrought upon by the constant ap- 
prehension of their death ; even as a terrified wretch upon a precipice, 
who swerves towards the very side that presents the danger. Let his 
deed, therefore, be viewed with compassion, as the fault of his unhappy 
fate, which forced upon him such a cruel crisis, and finally ended his 
sorrows by as tragical a death. On the morrow his dead body was 
found at sea by some fishermen, and being recognised as Argenti's, it 
was interred in one grave with those of his two childreiw 



TC4 



THE THREE JEWELS, 

THERE are many examples in ancient and modern story, of lovers 
who have worn various disguises to obtain their mistresses ; the 
great Jupiter himself setting the pattern by his notable transformations. 
Since those heroic days, love has often diverted himself in Italy as a 
shepherd with his pastoral crook ; and I propose to tell you how, in 
more recent limes, he has gone amongst us in various other shapes. 
But in the first place I must introduce to you a handsome youth, 
named Torrello, of Bergamo, who was enamoured of Fiorenza, the 
daughter of gentlefolks in the same neighbourhood. His enemies 
never objected anything against Torrello but his want of means to 
support his gentlemanly pretensions, and some extravagances and 
follies which belong generally to youth, and are often the mere foils 
of a generous nature. However, the parents of Fiorenza being some- 
what austere, perceived graver offences in his flights, and forbade him, 
under grievous penalties, to keep company with his mistress. 

Love, notwithstanding, is the parent of more inventions than 
necessity, and Torrello, being a lively-witted fellow, and withal deeply 
inspired by love, soon found out a way to be as often as he would in 
the presence of his lady. Seeing that he could not transform himself, 
like Jupiter, into a shower of gold for her sake, he put on the more 
humble seeming of a gardener, and so got employed in the pleasure- 
ground of her parents. I leave you to guess, then, how the flowers 
prospered under his care, since they were to form bouquets for 
Fiortnza, who was seldom afterwards to be seen without some pretty 
blossom in her bosom. She took many lessons, besides, of the gardener 
in his gentle craft, and her fondness growing for the employment, her 
time was almost all spent naturally amongst her plants, and to the 
infinite cultivation of her heart's-ease, which had never before pros- 
pered to such a growth. She learned also of Torrello a pretty 
language of hieroglyphics, which he had gathered from the giils of 
the Greek islands, so that they could hold secret colloquies together 
by exchanges of flowers ; and Fiorenza became more eloquent by this 
kind of speech than in her own language, which she had never found 
competent to her dearest confessions. 

Conceive how abundantly happy they were in such employments, 
surrounded by the lovely gifts of Nature, their pleasant occupation of 
itself being the primeval recreation of humankind before the Fall, and 
love especially being with them, that can convert a wilderness into a 
garden of sweets. 

The mother of Fiorenza chiding her sometimes for the neglect of 
her embroideries, she would answer in this manner : — 

" O my dear mother ! what is there in labours of art at all 
comiiarable with these .^ Why should I task myself with a tedious 
needle to stitch out poor tame formal emblems of these beautiful 
flowers and plants, when thus the living blooms spring up naturally 
vinder my hinds? 1 confess I never could account for the fondness of 
young women for that unwholesome chamber- work^ for the sake of a 



THE THREE JEWELS. TP; 

piece of inanimate tapestry, which hath neither freshness nor frag* 
glance; whereas, this bre< zy air, with the odour of the plants and 
shrubs, inspirits my very heart. I assure you, 'tis like a woilc of 
mar^ic to sec how they are charmed to spring up by the hands of our 
slcilful gardener, who is so civil and kind as to teach me all the secrets 
of his art." 

By such expressions her mother was quieted ; but her father was 
not so easily pacified ; for it happened, that whilst the roses flourished 
everywhere, the household herbs, by the neglect of Torrello and his 
assistants, went entirely to decay, so that at last, though there was a 
nosegay in every chamber, there was seldom a salad for the table. 
The master taking notice of the neglect, and the foolish Torrello in 
reply showing a beautiful flowery arbour, which he had buaied himself 
in erecting, he v.as abruptly discharged on the spot, and driven out, 
like Adam, from his paradise of flouers. 

The mother being informed afterwards of this transaction — 

"In truth," said she, "it was well done of you, for the fellow was 
very forward, and I think Fiorenza did herself some disparagement 
in making so much of him, as I have observed. For example, a small 
fee of a crown or two would have paid him handsomely for his lessons 
to her, without giving him one of her jewels, which I fear the knave 
will be insolent enough to wear and make a boast of," 

And truly Torrello never parted with the gift, which, as though it 
had been some magical talisman, transformed him quickly into a 
master falconer, on the estate of the parent of Fiorenza ; and thus he 
rode side by side with her whenever she went a-fowlmg. That health- 
ful exercise soon restored her cheerfulness, which, towards autumn, on 
the withering of her flowers, had been touched with melancholy ; and 
she pursued her new pastime with as much eagerness as before. She 
rode always beside the falconer, as constant as a tassel-gentle to his 
lure ; whilst Torrello often forgot to recall his birds from their flights. 
His giddiness and inadvertence at last procuring his dismissal, the 
falcon was taken from his finger, which Fiorenza recompensed with a 
fresh jewel, to console him for his disgrace. 

After this event, there being neither gardening nor fowling to amuse 
her, the languid girl fell into a worse melancholy than before, that 
quite disconcerted her parents. After a corisultation, therefore, between 
themselves, they sent for a noted physician from Turin, in spite of the 
opposition of Fiorenza, who understood her own ailment sufficiently 
to know that it was desperate to his remedies. In the menntune 
his visits raised the anxiety of Torrello to such a pitch, that after 
languishing some days about the mansion, he contrived to waylay 
the doctor on his return, and learned from him the mysterious 
nature of the patient's disease. The doctor confessing his despair 
of her cure — 

'' Be of good cheer," replied Torrello ; " I know well her complaint, 
and without any miracle will enable you to restore her, so as to re- 
dound very greatly to your credit. You tell me that she will neither 
«at nor drink, and cannot sleep if she would, but pines miserably 
away, with a despondency which must end in either madness or 
her dissolution : whereas, I promise you she shall not only feed 

2 Y 



706 THE THREE JEWELS. 

heartily, and sleep soundly, but dance and sing as merrily as yoa 
can desire." 

He then related confidentially the history of their mutual love, and 
begged earnestly that the physician would devise some means of get- 
ting him admitted to the presence of his mistress. The doctor being 
a good-hearted man, was much moved by the entreaties of Tonello, 
and consented to use his ability. 

" However," said he, " I can think of no way but one, which would 
displease you, and that is, that you should personate my pupil, and 
attend upon her with my medicines." 

The joyful Torrello assured the doctor, "that he was very much 
mistaken in supposing that any falsely-imagined pride could overmas- 
ter the vehemence of his love ;" and accordingly putting on an apron, 
with the requisite habits, he repaired on his errand to the languisiiing 
Fiorenza. She recovered very speedily at his presence — but was alto- 
gether well again, to learn that thus a new mode was provided for their 
interviews. The physician thereupon was gratified with a handsome 
present by her parents, who allowed the assistant likewise to conimue 
his visits till he had earned another jewel of Fiorenza. Prudence at 
last telling them that they must abandon this stratagem, they prepared 
for a fresh separation, but taking leave of each other upon a time too 
tenderly, they were observed by the father; and whilst Torrello was 
indignantly thrust out at the door, Fiorenza was commanded, with a 
stern rebuke, to her own chamber. 

The old lad)' thereupon asking her angry husband concerning the 
cause of the uproar, he told her that he had caught the doctor's man 
on his knees to Fiorenza. 

" A plague take him ! " said he ; "'tis the trick of all his tribe, with 
a pretence of feeling women's pulses to steal away their hands. I 
marvel how meanly the jade will bestow her favour next ; but it will 
be a baser varlet, I doubt, than a gardener or a falconer." 

"The falconer!" said the mother; "you spoke just now of the 
doctor's man." 

"Ay," Cjuoth he, "but I saw her exchange looks, too, with the fal- 
coner; my heart misgives me, that we shall undergo much disgrace 
^nd trouble on account of such a self-willed and forward child." 

"Alas !" quoth the mother, "it is the way of young women, when 
they are crossed in the man of their liking ; they grow desperate and 
careless of their behaviour. It is a pity, methinks, we did not let her 
have Torrello, who, with all his faults, was a youth of gentle birth, and 
not likely to disgrace us by his manners ; but it would bring me down 
to my grave, to have the girl debase herself with any of these common 
and low-bred people." 

Her husband, agreeing in these sentiments, they concerted how to 
have Torrello recalled, which the lady undertook to man.;ge, so as to 
make the most of their parental indulgence to Fiorenza. Accordin;^ly, 
after a proper lecture on her indiscretions, she dictated a dutiful letter 
to her lover, who came very joyfully in his own character as a gentle- 
man, and a time was appointed for the wedding. When the day arrived, 
and the company were all assembled, the mother, who was very Ivnx- 
lighted, espied the three trinkets — namely, a ring, a clasp, and a buckle 



GERONTMO AND GHISOLA. TOf 

—on the person of Torrello, that bad belonged to her daughter: how* 
ever, before she could put any questions, he took Fiorenza by the hand, 

and spoke as follows :- - 

" I know what a history you are going to tell me of the indiscretions 
of Fiorenza ; and that the several jewels you regard so suspiciously, 
Avere bestowed by her on a gardener, a falconer, and a doctor's man. 
Those three knaves, being all as careless and improvident as myself, 
the gifts are come, as you perceive, into my own possession ; notwith- 
standing, lest any should impeach, therefore, the constancy of this 
excellent lady, let them know that I will maintain her honour in behalf 
of myself, as well as of those other three, in token of which I have put 
on tiieir several jewels." 

The parents being enlightened by this discourse, and explaining it 
to their friends, the young people were married, to the general satis- 
faction ; and Fiorenza confessed herself thrice happy with the gardener, 
the falconer, and the doctor's man. 



GERONIMO AND GHISOLA. 

THERE are many tragical instances on record, of cruel parents 
who have tried' to control the affections of their children ; but 
as well might they endeavour to force backwards tlie pure mountain 
current into base and unnatural channels. Such attempts, whether of 
sordid parents or ungenerous rivals, redound only to the disgrace of 
the contrivers ; for Love is a jealous deity, and commonly avenges him- 
self by solnie memorable catastrophe. 

Thus it befell to the ambitious iVIarquis of Ciampolo, when he aimed 
at matching his only daughter, Ghisola, with the unfortunate Aifieri ; 
whereas her young heart was already devoted to her faithful Geronimo, 
a person of gentle birth and much merit, though of slender estate. 
For this reason, his virtues were slighted by all but Ghisola, who had 
much cadse to grieve at her father's blindness ; for Aifieri was a proud 
and jealous man, and did not scorn to disparage his rival by the most 
unworthy reports. He had, indeed, so little generosity, that althoui^h 
she pleaded the prepossession of her heart by another, he did not cease 
to pursue her ; and finally, the jMarquis, discovering the reason of her 
rejection,_the unhappy Geronimo was imperatively banished irom her 
presence^ 

In this extremity, the disconsolate lovers made friends with a vener- 
able oak in the Marquis's park, which presented a convenient cavity 
for the reception of their scrolls ; and in this way, this aged tree be- 
came the mute and faithful confidant of their secret correspondence. 
Its mossy and knotted trunk was inhabited bv several squirrels, and 
its branches by various birds ; and in its gnarled root a family of red 
ants had made their fortress, which afforded a sufficient excuse for 
Ghisola lo stop ofieii before the tree, as if to observe tiieir curious and 
instructive labours. In this manner they exchanged their fondest pro- 
fessions, and conveyed the dearest aspirations of their hearts to eacli 
other. 



7o8 GERONIMO AND GHISOLA» 

But love is a purblind and imprudent passion, which, like the ostrich, 

conceals itself from its proper sense, and then foolislily imagines that 
it is shrouded from all other eyes. Thus, whenever Ghisda walked 
abroad, her steps wandered by attraction to the self-same spot, her 
very existence seeming linked, hke the life of a dryad, to lier favour- 
ite tree. At last, these repeated visits attracting the curiosity of the 
vigilant Alfieri, his mgenuity soon divined the cause ; and warily tak« 
ing care to examine all the scrolls that passed between them, it hap- 
pened that several schemes, which they plotted for a secret interview, 
were vexatiously disconcerted. The unsuspicious lovers, however, at- 
tributed these spiteful disappointments to the malice of chance ; and 
thus their correspondence continued till towards the end of autumn, 
when the oak-tree began to shed its last withered leaves ; but Ghisola 
heeded not, so long as it afforded those other ones, which were more 
golden in her eyes than any upon the boughs. 

One evil day, however, repairing as usual to the cavity, it was empty 
and treasureless, although her own deposit had been removed as here- 
tofore ; and the dews beneath, it appeared, had been lately brushed 
away by the foot of her dear Geronimo. She knew, notwithstanding, 
that at anv risk he would not so have grieved her ; wherefore, returning 
homewari'iS with a heavy heart, she dreaded, not unreasonably, that she 
should discover what she pined fur in tlie hands of her incensed father; 
but bemg deceived in this expectation, she spent the rest of the day in 
tears and despondence ; for, rather than believe any negligence of 
Geronimo, she resolved that he must have met with some tr. gical ad- 
venture ; wherefore his bleeding gliost, with many more such horrible 
phantasies, did not fail to visit her in her thoughts and dreams. 

In the meantime, Geronimo was in equal despair at not having 
received any writings from Ghisola ; but his doubts took another turn 
than hers, and justly alighted on the treacherous Alfieri. At tlie first 
hints of his suspicion, therefore, he ran to the house of his rival, where 
the domestics refused positively to admit him, declaring that their 
master, if not already deceased, was upon the very threshold of death. 
Geronimo naturally supposing this story to be a mere subterfuge, drew 
his sword, and with much ado forced his way up to the sick man's 
chaiTiber, where he found him stretched out upon a couch, and covered 
from head to heel with a long cloak. The noise of the door disturbing 
him, Alfieri uncovered his face, and looked out with a countenance so 
horribly puckered by anguish and distorted, that Geronimo for an 
instant forgot his purpose, but recovering himself from the shock, he 
asked fiercely for the letters. 

The dying wretch answered to this demand with a deep groan, and 
removing the cloak, he showed Geronimo his bare arm, which was 
swelled as large round nearly as a man's body, and quite black and 
livid to the shoulder ; but the hand was redder in colour, and merely 
a lump of unshapely flesh, though without any perceptible wound. 

" This," said he, pomting to the livid member, " is my punishment 
for a deep offence to you ; and there is your cruel avenger." 

Geronimo, turning by his direction towards the table, at first sight 
discovered nothing deadly, but on looking wuhin a little silver box, he 
discovered a small dead scorpion, the bite of which, in our climate, is 



GERONIMO AND Gil ISO LA. 709 

frequertly mortal. Alfieri then motioning to Geronimo to come 

nearer, continued with great difficulty in these words : — 

" Tliere is a certain old oak, with ;i cleft in it, in the Marquis's park, 
which is but too well known to us both. My evil fortune led nie to 
discover its use to you ; and my baseness to abuse that knowledge, for 
which I am suffering these torments. For putting my guilty hand 
into the hollow for your papers, which, I blush to confess, were my 

ject, I was stung on my finger by this accursed reptile, who was 
lurking in the bottom of the hole. I have killed it, as you see, though 
my own anguish commenced with its destruction. Notwithstanding, 

1 took away the papers and ran hither, where, on looking at my hand, 
it was as scarlet as my shame ; and my arm was already be;jinning to 
swell to this monstrous size, and the convulsed muscles were all writh- 
ing together like as many serpents. And now my pangs, together with 
the fever of my remorseless mind, have brought me to the extremity 
you behold." Saying which, he fell into a I'resh fit of agony, so that 
the sweat issued in large drops from his forehe.id, and his eyes turned 
in their sockets with nothing but the whites upon Geronimo, whose 
flesh crept all over with compassion and dread. ^ 

This paroxysm passing over, he wiped away the foam from his 
mouth, and began to speak again, but in a much weaker voice and by 
syllables. 

" You see," said he, "my injuries have returned, like ardent coals, 
upon my own head. I designed to have supplanted you, whereas I 
am myself removed from my place on the earth. Let me then depart 
vith your forgiveness for the peace of my soul ; whilst, on my part, I 
make you amends as far as I may. And first of all take this box, with 
its fatal contents, to the Marquis, and bid him know by this token that 
God was adverse to our wiU. And because I did love, though vainly, 
let all my possessions be laid at the same feet where I used to kneel ; 
and beseech her, for charity's sake, to bestow her prasers on my de- 
parted soul. Tell her my pangs were bitter, and my fate cruel, except 
in preserving her from as hui rible a calamity." He then fell backwards 
again upon the couch, and died. 

As soon as he was laid out, Geronimo went and delivered the 
message to the Marquis, whom he found chiding with Ghisola for her 
melancholy. As he was much impressed with the dreadful scene he 
had witnessed, he described it very eloquently, so that both of his 
hearers were much aflccted, and especially at sight of the box with the 
dead scorpion. It cost Ghisola some fresh tears, which her lover did 
not reprove, to be told of the expressions which related to herself, 
but the Marquis was still more shocked at the relation, and confessing 
that it was the judgment of He.iven, he no longer opposed himself to 
the union of Ghisola with Geronimo. He then caused the r-mains of 
Altieri to be honourably buried ; and it was observt d that Geronimc 
shed the most tears of any one that wept over his tombw 



9IO. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF, 

THERE ts no vice that causes more calamities in huraan life than 
the intemperate passion for gaming. How many noble <xnd 
ingenious persons it hath reduced Irom wealth unto poverty; nay, 
from honesty to dishonour, and by still descending steps into the gulf 
of perdition ! And yet how prevalent it is in all capital cities, where 
many of the chiefest merchants, and courtiers especially, are mere 
pitiful slaves of Fortune, toiling like so many abject turnspits in her 
ignoble wheel. Such a man is worse off than a poor borrower, for all 
he has is at the momentary call of imperative Chance ; or rather he is 
more wretched than a very beggar, being mocked with an appearance 
of wealth, but as deceitful as if it turned, like the moneys in the old 
Arabian story, into decaying leaves. 

In our parent city of Rome, to aggravate her modern disgraces, this 
pestilent vice has lately fixed her abode, and has inflicted many deep 
wounds on the fame and fortunes of her proudest families. A number 
of noble youths have been sucked into the ruinous vortex, some of 
them being degraded at last into humble retainers upon rich men, but 
the most part perishing by an unnatural catastrophe ; and if the same 
fate did not befall the young Marquis de Malaspini, it was only by 
favour of a circumstance which is not likely to happen a second time 
for any gamester. 

This gentleman came into a handsome revenue at the death of his 
parents, whereupon, to dissipate his regrets, he travelled abroad, and 
his graceful manners procured him a distinguished reception at several 
courts. After two years spent in this manner he returned to Rome, 
where he had a magnificent palace on the banks of the Tiber, and 
which he further enriched with some valuable paintings and sculptures 
from abroad. His taste in these worlds was much admired ; and his 
friends remarked with still greater satisfaction, that he was untainted 
by the courtly vices which he must have witnessed in his travels. It 
only remained to complete their wishes, that he should form a matri- 
monial alliance that should be worthy of himself, and he seemed likely 
to fultil this hope in attaching himself to the beautiful Countess of 
Maraviglia. She was herself the heiress of an ancient and honourable 
house ; so that the match was regarded with satisfaction by the rela- 
tions on both sides, and especially as the young pair were most 
tenderly in love with each other. 

For certain reasons, however, the nuptials were deferred for a time, 
thus affording leisure for the crafty machinations of the devil, who 
delights, al)ove all things, to cross a virtuous and happy marriage. 
Accordingly, he did not lail to make use of this judicious opportunity, 
but chose for his instrument the lady's own brother, a very profligate 
and a gamester, who soon fastened, like an evil genius, on the unlucky 
Malaspini. 

It was a dismal shock to the lady, when she learned the nature 
of this connection, which Malaspini himself discovered to her, by 
Vicautiously dropping a die from his pocket in her presence. Sho 



THE FALL OF THE LEAF. yil 

fmmeJiately endeavoured, with all her influence, to reclaim him from 
the dreadful passion for play, v/liich had now crept over him Iik^- a 
moral cancer, and already disputed the sovereignty of love ; neither 
was it without some dreadlul struggles of remorse on his own part, 
and some useless victories, that he at last gave himself up to such 
desperate habits, but the power of his Mephistopheles prevailed, and 
the visits of Malaspini to the lady of his affections became still less 
frequent ; he repairing instead to those nightly resorts where the 
greater portion of his estates was already forfeited. 

At length, when the lady had not seen him for some days, and in 
the very last week before that which had been appointed for her 
marriage, she received a desperate letter from Malaspini, declaring 
that he was a ruined man in fortune and hope ; and that at the cost 
of his life even, he must renounce her hand for ever. He added, that 
if his pride would let him even propose himself, a beggar as he was, 
for lier acceptance, he should yet despair too much of her pardon to 
make such an ofter ; whereas, if he could have read in the heart of the 
unhappy lady, he would have seen that she still preferred the beg'^ar 
Malaspini to the richest nobleman in the Popedom. With abundance 
of tears and sighs perusing his letter, her first impulse was to assure 
him of that loving truth ; and to offer herself with her estates to him, 
in compensation of the spites of Fortune : but the wretched Malaspini 
had withdrawn himself no one knew whither, and she was constrained 
to content herself with grieving over his misfortunes, and purcliasing 
such parts of his property as were exposed for sale by his plunderers. 
And now it became apparent what a vihanous part his betra\er had 
taken ; for, having thus stripped the unfortunate gentleman, he now 
aimed to rob him of his life also, that his treacheries might remain 
undiscovered. To this end he feigned a most vehement indignation 
at Malaspini's neglect and bad faith, as he termed it, towa.rds his 
sister ; protesting that it was an insult to be only washed out with his 
blood : and with these expressions, he sought to kill him at any 
advantage. And" no doubt he would have become a murderer, as 
well as a dishonest gamester, if Malaspini's shame and anguish had 
not drawn him out of the way; for he had hired a mean lodging in 
the suburbs, from which he never issued but at dusk, and then only 
to wander in the most unfrequented places. 

It was now in the wane of autumn, when some of the days are fine, 
and gorgeously decorated at morn and eve by the rich sun's embroi- 
deries ; but others are dewy and dull, with cold nipping winds, 
inspiring comfortless fancies and thoughts of melancholy in every 
bosom. In such a dreary hour, Malaspini happened to walk abroad, 
and avoiding his own squandered estates, which it was not easy to 
do by reason of their extent, he wandered into a by-place in the 
neighbourhood. The place was very lonely and desolate, and without 
any near habitation ; its main feature especially being a large tree, 
now stripped bare of its vernal honours, excepting one dry yellow leaf, 
which was shaking ma topmost bough to the cold evening wind, and 
threatening at every moment to fall to the damp, dewy earth. Before 
this dreary object Malaspini stopped some time in contemplation, 
commenting to himself on the desolate tree, and drawing many apl 



yu THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 

comparisons between its nakedness and his own beggarly co!l« 

dition. 

"Alas ! poor bankrupt," says he, "thou hast been plucked too like 
me ; but yet not so basely. Thou hast but showered thy i^reen leaves 
on the grateful earth, which in another season will repay thee with sap 
and sustenance ; but those whom I have fattened will not so much as 
lend again to my living. Thou wilt thus regain all thy green summer 
wealth, which I shall never do ; and besides, thou art still better off 
than I am, with that one golden leaf to cheer thee, whereas I have 
been stripped even of my last ducat ! " 

With these and many more similar fancies he continued to aggrieve 
himself, till at last, being more sad than usual, his thoughts tended 
unto death, and he resolved, still watching that yellow leaf, to take its 
flight as the signal for his own departure. 

" Chance," said he, " hath been my temporal ruin, and so let it now 
determine for me in my last cast between life and death, which is all 
that its malice hath left me." 

Thus, in his extremity he still risked somewhat upon Fortune ; and 
very shortly the leaf being torn away by a sudden blast, it made two 
or three flutterings to and fro, and at last settled on the earth, at 
about a hundred paces from the tree. Malaspini instantly interpreted 
this as an omen that he ought to die ; and following the leaf till it 
alighted, he fell to work on the same spot with his sword, intending 
to scoop himself a sort of rude hollow for a grave. He found a 
strange gloomy pleasure in this fanciful design, that made him labour 
Very earnestly, and the soil besides being loose and sandy, he had 
soon cleared away about a foot below the surface. The earth then 
became suddenly more obstinate, and trying it here and there with 
his sword, it struck against some very hard substance ; whereupon, 
digging a little further down, he discovered a considerable treasure. 

There were coins of various nations, but all golden, in this petty 
mine ; and in such quantity as made Malaspini doubt, for a moment, 
if it were not the mere mintage of his fancy. Assifring himself, how- 
ever, that it was no dream, he gave many thanks to God for this timely 
providence ; notwithstanding, he hesitated for a moment, to deliberate 
whether it was honest to avail himself of the money ; but believing, as 
was most probable, that it was the plunder of some banditti, he was 
reconciled to the appropriation of it to his own necessities. 

Loading himself, therefore, with as much gold as he could con- 
veniently carry, he hastened with it to his huml^le quarters; and by 
making two or three more trips in the course of the night, he made 
himself master of the whole treasure. It was sufficient, on being 
reckoned, to maintain him in comfort for the rest of his life ; but not 
being able to enjoy it in the scene of his humiliations, he resolved to 
reside abroad ; and embarking in an English vessel at Naples, he was 
carried over safely to London. 

It is held a deep disgrace amongst our Italian nobility for a gentle- 
man to meddle either with trade or commerce ; and yet, as v e behold, 
they will condescend to retail their own produce, and wine especially 
— yea, marry, and with an empty barrel, like any vintner's sign, hung 
>ut at their stately palaces. Malaspini perhaps disdained from the 



BARANGA. 713 

first these illiberal prejudices ; or else he was taught to renounce thera 
by the example of the London merchants, whom he saw in that great 
mart of the world, engrossing the universal seas, and enjoying the 
power and importance of princes, merely from fruits of their traffic. 
At any rate, he embarked what money he possessed in various mer- 
cantile adventures, which ended so profitably, that in three years he 
had regained almost as large a fortune as he had formerly inherited. 
He then speedily returned to his native country, and redeeming his 
paternal ebtates, he was soon in a worthy condition to present himself 
to his beloved Countess, who was still single, and cherished him with all 
a woman's devotedness in her constant affection. They were therefore 
before long united, to the contentment of all Rome ; her wicked 
relation having been slain some time before, in a brawl with his 
associates. 

As for the fortunate windfall which had so befriended him, Malaspini 
founded with it a noble hospital for orphans ; and for this reason, that 
it belonged formerly to some fatherless children, from whom it hnd 
been withheld by their unnatural guardian. This wicked man it w.is 
who had buried the money in the sand: but when he found that his 
treasure was stolen, he went and hanged himself on the very tree that 
had caused its discovery. 



BARANGA. 

IT has been well said, that if there be :no marriages made up in 
heaven, there are a great many contrived in a worse place ; the 
devil having a visible hand in some matches, which turn out as mis- 
chievous and miserable as he could desire. Not that I mean here to 
rail against wedlock, the generality of such mockers falling into its 
worst scrapes ; but my mind is just now set upon such contracts as 
that of the Marquis Manfredi with Baranga, who before the year was 
out devised his death. 

This woman, it has been supposed by those who remember her 
features, was a Jewess, — which, in a Catholic country, the Marquis 
would be unwilling to acknowledge, — however, he affirmed that he had 
brought her from the kingdom of Spain. She was of the smallest fig- 
ure that w,is ever known, and very beautiful, but of as impatient and 
fiery a temper as the cat-a-mountains ot" her own country; never hesi- 
tating, in her anger, at any extremes, — neither sparing her own beau- 
tiful hair nor her richest dresses, which she sometimes tore into shreds 
with her passionate hands. At such times she confirmed but too 
plausibly her imputed sisterhood with Jael and Deborah, and those 
traditional Hebrew women who faltered not even at acts of blood ; and 
vho could not have looked more wildly at their tragedies than she, 
when she stood in her splendid rags, with her eyes flashing as darkly 
and as dangerously as theirs. 

As ?oon as she arrived in Italy, her fatal beauty captivated a number 
of unhappy youths, who were led by her waywardness into the most 
painful adventures ; some of them suft'ering by encounters amongst 



TI4 BARANGA. 

themselves, and others by the conveision of her fickle fa\M-jir into 

hatred and scorn. Manfredi suspected httle of these mischiefs, till at 
last the season of the Carnival drew nigh, vvlien tearinj< the influence 
of that long revel of pleasure and dissipation upon her mind, he with- 
drew with her to his country-scat, which was about nine leagues distant 
from Rome. Thither she was followed by one of her gallants, named 
Vitelh, a ferocious and dissolute man, and whom it is believed she 
engaged to pursue her, not so much for personal liking, as in the hope 
of his assistance to relieve her from this irksome retirement. Her 
temper, in the meantime, being irritated by such restraint, grew every 
day more fierce and desperate — her cries often resounded through the 
house, which was strewed with fresh tokens of her fury. With what- 
ever grief the Marquis beheld these paroxysms, he comforted himself 
by a fond reliance on her affection, and endeavoured by the niost ten- 
der assiduities to console her for the disappointment he had inflicted. 
The moment of her arrival in the country, therefore, he prc-^ented her, 
as a peace-offering, with a pair of superb ear-rings; but he quickly 
beheld her with her ears dropping blood, and the jewels, which she 
had violently plucked away, l>'ing trampled on the floor. 

It was common for such scenes to happen whenever they encoun- 
tered ; and in consequence their meetings, by mutual care, were more 
and more avoided, till they almost lived asunder in the same house. 
In the me mtime, Baranga did not forget her desire to be present at 
the Carniv.il, but contrived several stolen interviews with Vitelli ; after 
Which her manner changed abruptly from its usual violence to a gentler 
and thoughttul demeanour, her hours being chiefly spent solitarily in 
her own chamber. Above all, she never mentioned the Carnival, 
which had been till tlien her constant subject, but seemed rather to 
resign herself quietly to the wishes of her husband, who, seeing her 
so docile, repented in his heart of having ever crossed her pleasure. 

It was in those infamous times that the hell-born fashion of empoi- 
sonment spread itself throughout Italy like a contagious pestilence, and 
to the everlasting scandal of our history was patronised and protected 
by the rich and great. Thus there were various professors of the 
infernal art, who taught, by their damnable compounds, how to ravish 
away life either sudd<."nly or by languishing stages ; and many persons 
of note and quality became their disciples, to the endless perdition of 
their souls, or at best, to the utter hardening of their hearts, according 
as they were prompted in their experiments by unlawful curiosity, or 
by more black and malignant motives. Whilst some practised, there- 
fore, on the bodies of dogs and cats, and such mean animals, there 
were not wanting others who used their diabolical skill upon human 
relations that were obnoxious, and the names of many such victims 
are recorded, though the fate of a still greater number was hinted only 
by popular suspicion. 

To one of these vile agents, then, the base Vitelli addressed himself; 
and the secret studies of Baranga were guided by his direction. Whilst 
the Marquis was hoping in the wholesome results of a temporary 
melancholy and seclusion, which liave m.ide some minds so nobly 
philosojjhise, her guilty lovely hands were tatnpering with horrid 
chemistry ; and her niedilalions busy with the most black and deadlj 



BARANGA, yi5 

»yrups. There is a traditional picture of her thus occupied in her 

chamber, with the apparition of Death at her elbow, whilst with her 
bla^k and piercing e^cs she is watching the martyrdom of a little bud, 
that is perishing from her Circean compounds. 

And now we may suppose Manfredi to be doomed as the next victim 
of her pernicious craft — who, on his part, was too unsuspicious to re- 
ject anything which she might tender to him with her infinitely small 
and delicate white hand. And assuredly the appointment of his death 
was not far distant, when the jealousy of the disappointed suitors of 
Baranga pre\ented her design. They had not omitted to place some 
spies over her movements : wherefore, on the eve of the Carnival, 
Manfredi was ndvised by a letter in an unknown h.ind, that she had 
concerted with Vitelli her elopement to Rome, and in a nun's habit, 
as he might convince himself with hltle pains, by an inspection of her 
wardrobe. 

Manfredi was not a person to shut his eyes wilfully against the 
light, but recalled with some uneasiness her mysterious seclusion. 
He chose a time, therefore, when Baranga was absent, to visit her 
wardrobe, where if he did not discover the nun's habit, he found a com- 
plete suit of new sables, which had been prepared by her in anticipa- 
tion of her widowhood. It is easy to conceive with what horror he 
shrunk aghast at this dreary evidence of her malignity, which yet was 
not fully confirmed, till he had broken into her unholy study, and lo ! 
there lay the dead bird, beside some samples of her diabolical chemistry, 
upon a table. There were lying about banelul hellebore, and night- 
shade, and laurel, and such poisonous herbs, and I know not what 
deadly resins and gums, whether in syrups or as drugs, together with 
divers venomous styles and imbued needles for the infliction of death ; 
yea, even subtle and impalpable powders to be inhaled by the sleeping 
with the vital air, to such a villanous pitch those curst empoisoners 
had carried their speculative inventions. 

Manfredi knew loo well the import of these dreadful symptoms, to 
doubt any longer of her purpose ; however, he touched nothing, but 
with a dreadful stern composure returned down-stairs, and sending 
for a trusty domestic, commanded him to go instantly for a shroud. 
The man, obeymg this strange order without any comment, in an hour 
returned with the deathly garment, which the Marquis with his own 
hands then hung up in the wardrobe, beside the widow's weeds, and in 
that plight left it for the discovery of Baranga. 

And truly this was but a timely proceeding, for in tliat very hour 
she concerted with Vitelli to poison her husband at supper with a dish 
of sweetmeats ; after. which she returned home, and was first startled 
by the stern silence of Manfredi, who turned from her without a 
syllable. Her wretched guilty heart immediately smote her, and run- 
ning up to her devilish sanctuary, she saw that it had been invaded ; 
but how much more was she shocked upon sight of a dreary and 
awful shroud hanging beside those premature weeds, which it warned 
her she was never to put on ! In a frenzy of despair, therefore, turn- 
ing her own cruel arms against herself, she swallowed one of the most 
deadly of her preparations, and casting herself down on the floor, with 
a horrible ghastly countenance awaited the same dreadful pangs which 



yi6 THE EXILE. 

she had so lately witnessed on the poisoned bird. And now, doubt* 
less, it came bitterly over her, what lenrful fiutterings she had seen it 
mnke, and throbs, and miserable gaspings of its dying beak ; and even 
as the bird had perislied, so did she. 

There was no one bold enoui^h to look upon her last agonies ; but 
when she was silent and still, the Marquis caine in and wept over her 
ill-starred body, «hich had been brought by its ungovernable spirit to 
so frightful a dissolution. 



THE EXILE, 

IN the reign of King Charles the Fifth of Spain, there lived in Mad- 
rid a gentleman, who being of a fair reputation and an ample 
fortune, obtained in marriage the dau;4hter of one of the councillors 
of state. He had not lived long thus happily, when one day his father- 
in-law returned from the council, with a countenance full of dismay, 
and informed him that a secret accusation of treason had been pre- 
ferred against him. 

" Now, I know," said he, " that you are incapable of so great a wicked- 
ness, not merely from the loyalty of your nature, but because you can- 
not be so cruel as to have joined in a plot which was directed against 
my own life as well as others : yet, not knowing how far the malice 
of your enemies might prevail, for your marriage has made foes of many 
who were before your rivals, I would advise you to a temporary lb >iht. 
Time, which discovers all m\ steries, will then, in some happier season, 
unravel the plot which is laid ag .inst your life : but at present, the 
prejudice against you is hot, and the danger therefore is imminent." 

To this the gentleman replied, that as he should answer to God in 
judgment, he was innocent, and altogether ignorant of the treason im- 
puted to him ; and therefore, being conscious of his innocence, and 
besides, so recently married, he preferred rather to remain in the king- 
dom and await the issue of his trial. The danger, however, became 
more pressing with every hour, and, finally, the advice of the councillor 
prevailed. The unfortunate gentleman, accordingly, took a hasty but 
most affectionate farewell of his young wife ; and with a heavy heart 
embarked on bcniid a foreign mtrchant vessel tiiat was bound for the 
Gulf of Venice. The councillor was immediately arrested and thrown in 
prison, as having been an accessary to his son-in-law's escape; but 
being afterwards set free, he was still watched so vigilantly by the 
spies of the accusers, that he could not safely engage in any cor- 
res[)ondence with his relation. 

In this manner nearly two years passed away; till at lenvth (he 
miserable exile grew so impatient of liis condition, that he resolved to 
return, even at whatever hazard to his life. Passing, therefore, by way 
of France into Spain, and taking care to disguise himself so effectually 
that he could not be recognised by his oldest acquaintance, he arrived in 
safety at a village in the neighbourhood of Madrid. There he learned, 
for the first time, that his father-in-law had been disgraced and 
amerced so lieavily, that being of a proud spirit and unable to endure 



THE EXILE. yij 

his rever?;ps, he had died of a broken heart : and moreover, that his 
daughter was presently living in the capital in the greatest affliction. 
At these melancholy tidings, he repented more than ever that he had 
quitted Spam, and resolved to repair to his wife without any further delay. 

Now it chanced in the village where he was resting, that he had a 
very dear friend, named Rodrigo, who had been his schoolmate, and 
was as dear to him as a brother ; and going to his house at sunset, 
he discovered himself to the other, and besought him to go before to 
Madrid, and prepare his dear wife for his arrival. " And now, remem- 
ber," said he, "that my life, and not only mine, but my dear lady's 
also, depends upon your breath ; and if you frame it into any speech, 
so imprudently as to betray me, I vow by our Holy Lady of Lorctto, 
that I will eat your heart ;" and with this and still stranger expres- 
sions, he conducted himself so wildly, as to show ih.it his misfoi tunes, 
and perhaps some sickness, had impaired the healthiiuss of his brain. 
His friend, however, like a prudent man, concealed this observation ; 
but unlocking his library, and saying that there was store of entertain- 
ment in his absence, he departed on his mission. 

On Rddrigo's arrival at the lady's house, she was seated on a sofa, 
and, as if to divert her cares, was busied in some embroidery ; but 
every now and then she stayed her needle to wipe off a tear that 
gathered on her long dark eyelashes, and sometimes to gnze for 
minutes together on a small portrait which lay before her on a table. 
" Alas ! " she said to the picture, *' we two that should have lived 
togetiier so happily, to be thus asunder ; but absence has made room 
for sorrow to come between us, and it slays both our hearts : " and as 
she complained thus, Rodrigo joyfully entered and began to unfold to 
her his welcome tidings. 

,At first, the sorrowful lady paid scarcely any attention to his words, 
but so soon as she comprehended th;it it concerned her dear husband's 
arrival, she could hardly breathe for joy. 

" What ! shall I behold him here, in this very spot ; nay here," said 
she, pressing her hands vehemently upon her bosom : " I pray thee do 
not mock me, for my life is so flown into this hope, that they must die 
together if you deceive me ; " and only at the entrance of that doubt 
she burst into a flood of tears. But being assured that the news was 
indeed true, and that her husband would presently be with her, she 
clasped her hands passionately together, and crying out that joy was 
as hard to bear as grief, besought Heaven that it might not madden 
her before he came, and then began to weep again as violently as 
before. Upon this, Rodrigo reproving her, she excused herself, saving 
"that a dream which had troubled her in the night, had overpowered 
her weak spirits." 

"And in truth," said she, "it was very horrible ; for my dear hus- 
band appeared to me like a phantom, and laid his cold hand upon 
mine, like a fall of snow ; and he asked me if I was afraid of him, that 
I shuddered so, and I answered him, ' God forbid ! but yet your voice, 
methinks, is not your own, nor so gentle, — but very fierce, and there is 
a, strange light instead of love in your eyes.' And he said, 'This voice 
truly is not my own, nor the shining of my eyes ; but the serpent's 
within me, who hath devoured my brain ; and when he looks out upon 



7i8 THE EXILE. 

tTiee, he will kill thee, for he does not love thee as I used, neither is 
there any remorse in his heart.' As he spoke thus, I saw a !ii,'ht shin- 
ing in his skull, and wild strange eyes looking forth through his eyes : 
so that I cried out with terror, and awaked, liut e\-er since this dream 
has haunted me, and even now, as you see, I cannot quite get rid of its 
depression." 

At the nature of this dream Don Rodrigo could scarcely forbear 
from shuddering, for he doubted not that the serpent signified the 
madness which he had observed about his friend, and that the vision 
itself was but the type of some impending calamity ; nevertheless, he 
subdued his own fears before the lady, and endeavoured to divert her 
thoughts till the arrival of her husband. 

After a tedious interval, at length the door was suddenly flung open, 
and he leaped in ; and rushing to his wife, they embraced in silence 
tor several sweet minutes, till separating a little, that they mij^ht gaze 
on each other, the lady remarked that his arm was bound up in a 
bloody handkerchief. 

" Nay," said he, perceiving her alarm ; "it is no very grievous hurt, 
though I have been assailed by robbers in my way hither : but, alas ! 
what greater injury hath grief wrought upon thee ! " for with her 
maidenly figure, she had all the careful countenance of a matron in 
years. 

Indeed, it was easy to conceive how their heafts had suffered and 
hungered for each other by their present passionate endearments, for 
they soon crowded into a few short minutes all the hoarded affection 
of years. I3ut such joy as theirs is often but the brief wonder of 
unhappy lives ; and so, in the very summit of delight, they were inter- 
rupted by Don Rodrigo, who, with looks full of terror, declared that 
the house was 'beset by the police, and presently a loud knocking w»s 
heard at the outer gates. At this alarm, the two unfortunates started 
asunder, and listened till they heard even the throbbings of their own 
fearful hearts. But at the second knocking, the gentleman, quitting 
his wife, and drawing his sword, stared wildly about him with eyes 
that seemed to flash out sparkles of unnatural fire. 

" Ha !" said he, casting a terrible glance upon Rodrigo ; "have I 
sold my life to such a devil.?" and suddenly springing upon him and 
tearing him down to the ground, he thrust his sword fiercely into his 
bosom. 

And indeed it seemed but too reasonable that Rodrigo, who alone 
had known the secret of the exile's arrival, had betrayed him to the 
Government. Notwithstanding, at the first flush of the blood, as it 
gushed out as if in reproach of the weapon, the gentleman made an 
effort to raise his friend again from the floor ; but in the meantime 
the police had enforced their entrance, and now made him their 
prisoner without any resistance. He begged merely that his arms 
might be left unbound, but immediately attempting in his frenzy !o 
do some injury to his wife, and reviling her, through madness, with 
tiie very venom and aspect of a serpent, the officers hurried him 
instantly to his prison. All the time that he was being fettered he 
seemed quite unconscious, and altogether in some dream forei.i;n to 
His condition ; but as the door closed and the bolts grated harshly on 



THE EXILE. 719 

the outside, he recovered his senses, and made answer with a deep 
groan. 

At first he believed he had no company in his misery, but presently 
he heard a rustling of straw, with a clanking of chains in one corner 
of the dungeon, which was a very dark one, and a man in irons cnme 
up slowly towards the grate. The little light sufficed to show that his 
countenance was a very horrid one, although hidden for the most part 
in his black, bushy hair ; and he had besides but ofte eye : by which 
tokens the gentleman readily recognised him as one of the banditti 
who had set upon him in the forest. 

" So, senor," said he, " I perceive that one foul night has netted us 
both ; and therein I have done to thee one more injury than I designed; 
but my plunder has all gone before the council, and along with it thy 
papers : so if there be aught treasonable in them that brings thee to 
this cage, my ill-luck must be blamed for it, which is likely to bring us 
both to the same gallows." 

At this discourse the gentleman fell into a fresh frenzy, but less of 
madness than of bitter grief and remorse : every word avenging upon 
him the stab which he had inflicted on his dear friend Rodrigo. He 
cast himself, therefore, on the hard floor, and would have dashed his 
tortured brains against the stones, but for the struggles of the robber, 
who, hard-hearted and savage as he had been by profession, was yet 
touched with strange pity at the sight of so passionate a grief. It 
settled upon him afterwards to a deep dejection, and in this condition, 
after some weeks' continement, the wretched gentleman was finally 
released without any trial, by an order of the council. This change, 
however, which should have been a blessing to any other, produced no 
alleviation of his malady. It was nothing in the world to him that he 
was free to revisit its sunshine, and partake of all its natural delights, 
and above all, enjoy the consolations and the sweets of domestic 
affection. Though there was one ever gazing upon him with an 
almost breaking heart, he neither felt his own misery nor hers, but 
looked upon all things with an eye bright and fiery indeed at times ; 
but not, like the stars, illuminate with knowledge. 

In this mood he would sit for hours with his arms folded, and gaz- 
ing upon the vacant air, sighing sometimes, but never conscious of 
the presence of his once beloved wife, who sat before him, and watched 
his steadfast countenance, till she wept at his want of sympathy. 
Day passed after day, and night after night, but there was no change 
in the darkness of his mind, till one morning, as he sat, his reason as 
it were returned upon him like the dawn of day, when the sky is first 
streaked with light, and the world gains a weak intelligence of the 
things that are in it. He had been looking for some minutes on his 
wife without knowing her, but tears glistened, for the first time, in his 
eyes, and at last two large drops, and with those his delirium, were 
shed from his eyelids. He immediately recognised his wife, and cast 
himself into her arms. 

The joyful lady, in her turn, found it hard to retain her senses. After 
returning his caresses in the tenderest manner, she hastened immedi- 
ately to Don Rodrigo, who, though severely hurt, had got better of his 
wound, and watched the more dreadful maLidy of his friend, some- 



720 THE OWL. 

times indeed, in hope, but more commonly in despair of his recovery. 

At the first news, therefore, he ran hastily to the room, and soon cast 
himseU" into the arms of his friend : but the latter received him coldly ; 
and betoro Rodrigo could finish even a brief salutation, he felt the other's 
arms loosening from around his neck, and beheld his head suddenly 
drop, as it it had been displeasing that their eyes should meet again. 
It seemed, indeed, that his malady had already returned upon him ; 
but in another moment the body fell forwards on the floor, and in- 
stantly the blood gushed from a hidden wound in the side, which had 
hitherto been concealed by the mantle. A pair of scissors, covered 
with blood and broken, for the wound had been desperately bestowed, 
dropped from him as he fell : for, to show more sadly the lady's own 
joyful forgetfulness, she had supplied the weapon for this dreadful 
catastrophe. 

As for the miserable lady, it was feared, from the violence of her 
grief, that the same dismal blow would have been her death ; but her 
heart had been too long inured to such sufferings to be so speedily 
broken ; and at last, attaining to that peace which belongs only to the 
comforts of our holy religion, she devoted her widowhood to God, and 
cheerfully ended an old age of piety in the Convent of St Faith. 



THE O WL. 

'* AN indiscreet friend," says the proverb, " is more dangerous than 
l\. the naked sword of an enemy ; " and truly, there is nothing 
more fatal than the act of a misjudging ally, which, like a mistake in 
medicine, is apt to kill the unhappy patient whom it was intended to 
cure. 

This lesson was taught in a remarkable manner to the innocent Zer- 
lina, a peasant ; to conceive which, you must suppose her to have gone 
by permission into the garden of the Countess of Marezzo, near the 
Arno, one beautiful morning of June. It was a spacious pleasure- 
ground, excellently disposed and adorned with the choicest specimens 
of shrubs and trees, being bounded on all sides by hedgerows of laurels 
and myrtles, and such somlDre evergreens, and in the midst was a 
pretty verdant lawn with a sundial. 

The numberless plants that belong to that bountiful season were then 
in full flower, and the delicate fragrance of the orange blossoms per- 
fumed the universal air. The thrushes were singing merrily in the 
copses, and the bees, that cannot. stir without music, made a joyous 
bumming with their wings. All things were vigorous and cheerful ex- 
cept one, a poor owl, that had been hurt by a bolt from a crossbow, 
and so had been unable by daylight to regain his accustomed hermit- 
age, but sheltered himself under a row of laurel-trees and hollies, that 
afforded a delicious shadow in the noontide sun. There, shunning 
and shunned by all, as is the lot of the unfortunate, he languished over 
his wound ; till a flight of pert sparrows espying him, he was soon 
forced to endure a thousand twittings as well as buffets from that in- 
solent race. 



THE OWL, 73« 

The noise of these chatterers attracting the attention of Zerlina, she 
crossed over to the spot ; and, lo ! there crouched the poor bewildered 
owl, blinking with his large bedazzled eyes, and nodding as if with 
giddiness from his buffetings and the bl;ize of unusual light. 

The tender girl being very gentle and compassionate by nature, was 
no ways repelled by his ugliness ; but thinking of his sufferings, took 
up the feathered wretch in her arms and endeavoured to revive him by 
placing him on her bosom. There, nursing him with an abundance of 
pity and concern, she carried hi.*j to the grass-plat, and being ignorant 
of his habits, laid out the poor drooping bird, as her own lively spirits 
prompted her, in the glowmg sunshine ; for she felt in her own heart, 
at that moment, the kind and cheerful influence of the genial sun. 
Then, withdrawing a little way and leaning against the dial, she awaited 
ihe grateful change which she hoped to behold in the creature's looks ; 
whereas, the tormented owl being grievously dazzled, and annoyed 
more than ever, hopoed off again, with many piteous efforts, to the 
shady evergreens. Notwithstanding, believing that this shyness was 
only because of his natural wildness or fenr, she brought him over again 
to the lawn, and then ran into the house for some crumbs to feed him 
withal. 

The poor owl, in the meantime, crawled partly back, as before, to his 
friendly shelter of holly. The simple girl found him, therefore, with 
much wonder, again retiring towards those gloomy bushes. 

"Why, what a wilful creature is this," she thought, "that is so loth 
to be comforted ! No sooner have I placed it in the warm cheerful 
sunshine, which enlivens all its felluw-birds to chirp and sing, than it 
goes back and mopes under the most dismal corners. I have known 
many human persons to have those peevish fits, and to reject kindness 
as perversely, but who would look for such unnatural humours in a 
simple bird ! " 

Therewith, taking the monkish fowl from his dull leafy cloisters, she 
disposed him once more on the sunny lawn, where he made still fresh 
attempts to get away from the over-painful radiance, but was now be- 
come too feeble and ill to remove. Zerlina therefore began to believe 
that he was reconciled to his situation ; but she had hardly cherished 
this fancy, when a dismal film came suddenly over his large round 
eyes ; and then falling over upon his back, after one or two slow gasps 
of his beak, and a few twitches of his aged claws, the poor martyr of 
kindness expired before her sight. It cost her a few tears to witness 
the tragical issue of her endeavours ; but she was still more grieved 
afterwards, when she was told of the cruelty of her unskilful treatment : 
• — and the poor owl, with its melancholy death, was the frequent sub- 
ject of her meditations. 

In the year after this occurrence, it happened that the Countess of 
Marezzo was in want of a young lemale attendant, and being much 
struck with the modesty and lively temper of Zerltna, she requested her 
parents to let her live with her. The poor people having a numerous 
family to provide for, agreed very cheerfully to the proposal ; and Zer- 
lina was carried by her benefactress to Rome. Her good conduct 
confirming the prepossessions of the Countess, the latter showed her 
many marks of her favour and regard, not only furnishing her haact 

2 Z 



/TRl THE GERMAN KNIGHT. 

somely with apparel, but taking her as a companion on her visits to the 

most rich and noble families, so tiiat Zerlina was thus introduce d to 
much g.iiftv iind splendour. Herhe.irt, notwiihstanding, aciied often- 
times under her silken dresses, for in spite of the favour of liie Countess, 
she met witii many slights from the proud and wealthy, on account oiher 
humble origin, as well as much envy and malice from persons of her 
own condition. She fell therefore into a deep melancholy, and being 
interro:4ated by the Countess, she declared th<it she pined for her for- 
mer humble but happy estate, and begged with all humility that she 
might return to her native village. 

The Countess being much surprised as well as grieved at this con- 
fession, inquired if she had ever ^^iven her cause to repent of her pro- 
tection, to which Zerlina replied with many grateful tears, but still 
avnv\ing the ardour of her wishes. 

'' Let me return," said she, "to my own homely life ; this oppressive 
splendour dazzles and bewilders me. I feel by a thousand humiliating 
mis.^ivings and disgraces, that it is foreign to my nature ; my defects 
of birth arj manners making me shrink contmualiy within myself, 
whilst thosj who were born for its blaze perceive readily that I belong 
to an obscurer race, and taunt me with jests and indignities for intrud- 
ing on their sphere. Those, also, who should be my equals are quite 
as bitter against me for overstepping their station, so that my life is 
thus a round of perpetual mortincaiions and uneasiness. Pray, there- 
fore, absolve me of ingratitude, if I long to return to my native and 
prop-.^r shades, with their appointed habits. I am dying, like the poor 
owl, for lack of my natural obscurity." 

The curiosity of the Countess being awakened by her last expression, 
Zerlina related to her the story of that unfortunate bird, and applied it 
with a very touching commentary to her own condition ; so tliat the 
Countess was affected even to the shedding of tears : she immeiliately 
comprehended the moral, and carrying back Zerlina to her native vil- 
lage, she bestowed her future favour so judiciously, that instead of being 
a misfortune, it secured, the complete happmess of the pretty peasant. 



THE GERMAN KNIGHT. 

TPIERE is an old proverb, that some jokes are cut-thronts ; mean- 
ing that certain unlucky jests are apt to bring a tragical ending, 
•^a truth which has being confirmed by many instances besides that 
one which I am about to relate. 

At the memorable siege of Vienna by the French, in the year -, 

the inhabitants enrolled themselves in great numbers for the defence 
of the city, and amongst these was one Lodowic, a man of dull intel- 
lect and a hasty temper, but withal of a slow courage. He was no* 
one of the last, however, to volunteer ; for there was a lady in the 
background who excited him, with an extraoruinary eagerness, to take 
up arms against tlie common enemy. 

It is notorious thai the Germans, though phle<4matic, are a romantic 
^^ople in their notions ; the tales of chivalry, the mysteries of Odin, 



THE GERMAN KNIGHT, 7»3 

tnd diabolical legends, being their most favourite studies. In afTairs 
of business they are plodding, indefatigable, and of an extraordinaiy 
patience, their naturalists having counted cod's eggs, by millions, 
beyond any other people ; and in their extravagant flights they equally 
surpass the rest of mankind, even as it has been observed ot the most 
sedate drudge-horses, that they kick up highest of any when turned out 
free into the meadow. 

Dorothe.5, for so the lady was called, partook largely of the national 
bias ; and in truth, for her own peace and contentment, should have 
lived some centuries sooner, when the customs recorded by the min- 
nesingers and troubadours were the common usages. In her own 
times, it was a novelty to see a young maiden so over-delighted as she 
was at the dedication of her lover to deeds of arms and bloodshed ; as 
if, forsooth, he had been going only to tilt witli a blunted lance at a 
holiday tournament, instead of the deadly broil with the French in 
which he was engaged. With her own hand she embroidered for him 
a silken scarf, in the manner of the damsels of yore, and bereaved her 
own headgear to bedeck his helmet with a knightly plume. For it 
was one ot her fancies that Lodovvic should go forth to the war in tb« 
costume of her ancestors, from whose armoury she selected a suit of 
complete steel, which had been worn aforetime in the Holy Land. 

The timid spirit of the German made him willingly entrench himself 
in a coat of mail, and its security helped him to overlook the undue 
alacrity with which the lady of his love commended him to the bloody 
field. Not a tear did she spend at the buckling on of his cuirass, nor 
a single sigh at the delivery of his shield. 

" Return with this," said the hard-hearted one, " or upon it,"— a 
benediction which she had learned of the Spartan lieroine. 

It was noon when the redoubtable Lndowic rode forth thus accoutred 
to join his troop on th.e parade. His liorse, scared by the clattering 
of the armour, made many desperate plunges by the way, to the 
manifest derangement of his scarf, and still more of his plumes, which 
began to droop down his nape in a very unseemly fashion. The joints 
of his armour being stiff with the rust of age, he had no great com- 
mand of his limbs, nor was he very expert or graceful in the manage- 
ment of his lance. As for his shield, he had found convenient to cast 
it amongst certain gossiping housewives in the street ; so that, in 
extremity, he could fulfil neither of the Spartan conditions. 

The common people, v\ ho have hawks' e\ es for any grotesque figure, 
shouted lustily alter him as he rode, which attracted the general notice 
of his troop to that quarter, and as soon as they perceiv(.d his uncoutli 
habiliments, set off as they were by his imperturbable German gravity, 
there was a tumult of laughter and derision along the whole line. 

Now it happened that there belonged to this troop an adjutant, a 
special friend of Lodowic, but, on this occasion, the most bitter of his 
mockers. A hundred merry jests he passed upon the unlucky man- 
at-arms, till at last the incensed paladin beckoned him a pace or tv\a 
apart, and after a short but angry conference, returned with his face 
at a white heat to his mistress, and informed her of the event. 

" Now this adventure," said the cruel one, " falls out better than I 
hoped. Thou shult cast down th^ gauntlet in defiance of this ua* 



9t4 THE GERMAN KNIGHT. 

courteous Icnight ; and though there be no royal lists appointed ia 
these days, ye may have, notwithstanding, a very honourable and 
chivalrous encounter." 

"As for that, m;idam," returned Lodowic, "the mntter is settled, 
and without throwing about any gloves at all. I have dared him to 
meet me to-morrow at sunrise, by the Linden Wood ; and one w.iy or 
another I daresay sometliing desperate will be done between us." 

The hard-hearted one, highly in love with this nesvs, embraced 
Lodowic very tenderly, and, to mark her grace towards him still far- 
ther, gave him her glove to wear as a favour during the impending 
combat. She selected for him, moreover, a new suit of armour, and 
gave him a fresh shield ;igainst any disaster, — a provision which the 
knight acknowledged with equal gratitude and gravity. And now she 
had nothing left but to dream, waking or sleeping, of the wager of 
battle of the morrow; whereas, Lodowic, e'osed his eyes no more 
through the night than if he had been watching his arms in a 
church. 

As soon as the cocks began to crow, which he heard with as much 
pleasure as St Peter, he put on his arms, and set forth whilst the morn- 
ing was yet at a grey light. There is no cliill so deathlike and subtle 
as that which springs up with the vapourish damps before sunrise, 
and Lodowic soon found himself all over in a cold sweat, answerable 
to that of the earth. Thoughts of death, besides, began now to be 
busy within him ; the very crimson rents and fissures of the eastern 
sky suggesting to him the gaping of the gory wounds which might 
soon be inflicted on his miserable body, for he knew that even the 
iron defences of the olden knights had not exempted them from such 
cruel slashes. In the meantime, he studied a pacific discourse, which 
he trusted would heal up the quarrel better than either swurd or lance ; 
and in this Christian temper he arrived at the appointed place. There 
was no one yet visible within the narrow obscure horizon ; wherefore 
he paced his horse slowly up and down in front of the Linden Wood, 
between which and himself there flowed a small murmuring stream. 

After about twenty turns to and fro, Lodowic beheld some one 
emerging from the trees, whom the mist of the morning would not 
let him perfectly distinguibh. However, the pale light of the sun 
be.can presently to glance upon the figure, turning it from a dark 
object to a bright one, so that it gleamed out like the rivulet, which 
stood at nearly the same distance. The figure leaped his horse over 
the brook with a slight noise that sounded like the jingling of arms, 
and coming gently into the foreground, Lodowic discerned that it was 
the adjutant, in a suit of complete armour. At this si.^ht, he was 
very much puzzled whetiier to take it as a new affront or as an apology, 
that the other came thus, in a suit of the kind that had begotten their 
difference ; but how monstrous was his rage to discover that it was 
only a burlesque armour — the helmet being merely a jiewter bason 
and the shield the cover of a large iron pot. The mocker, pursuing 
his original jest in this indiscreet way, had prepared a set speech loa- 
the encounter. 

" You see, cousin," said he, " that I meet you at your own arms. 
Here is my helmet to match with yours, and this my buckler is made 



TnE GERMAN KNIGHT, 715 

after the model of your own ; here is my corslet too " — but before h? 
could achieve thn comparison, his horse was staggering from the rush 
of the choleric Lodowic, whose spear, whether by ;iccident or design, 
was buried deep m the other's bosom. The wounded man gave but 
one groan, and fell backward, and the horse of Lodowic taking fright 
at the clatter of the armour, started off at full gallop, throwing his 
rider side by side with the bleeding wretch upon the grass. 

As soon as he recovered from the shock, Lodowic got up and 
gazed with fixed eyes on the wounded man. He was lying on his 
back, staring dreadfully against the sky ; one of his hands was 
clenched about the handle of the cruel spear — the other he kept 
striking with mere anguisli against the ground, where it soon became 
dabbled in a pool of blood that had flowed from his wound. Anon, 
drawing it in a fresh agony across his brow, his face likewise was 
smeared over with the gore, making altogether so shocking a picture, 
that Lodowic was ready to swoon away upon the spot. 

" In the name of God," he cried, "tell me, my dearest friend, that 
you are not mortally hurt ;" but the wounded man made answer only 
by a horrible roll of his eyes, and so expired. 

Imagine what a dreadful sharp pang of remorse went throucih the 
bosom of Lodow ic at this dreary spectacle. His heart felt cold within 
him, like a ball of snow, but his head was burning with a tumult of 
remorseful and miserable thoughts, tOi,'ether with some most painful 
misgivings as to the disposition of his mistress, which now began to 
show at variance with loveliness and womanhood. But it was time to 
be gone, the country-people beginning to stir about the fields ; so 
casting off the accursed armour, which now pained him throus^h and 
through, like Nessus' poisoned shirt, he ran off, bewildered, he knew 
not whither. 

Shortly after his departure, the hard-hearted Dorothea, with her 
woman, arrived at the spot — and lo ! there lay the dead body of the 
adjutant, with the spear still sticking upright in his bosom. I know 
not how such a fortitude consists with the female nature, but she 
looked on this dreadful object with all the serenity of a lady in old 
romance. Her only concern was to behold the armour of Lodowic 
scattered so shamefully about, for she had resolved that he should 
rt;i:iair to her with all the chivalrous formality. Returning home, 
therefore, with great scorn and anger in her looks, she promised to 
visit the unfortunate knight with a rigorous penance ; but she saw 
no more of Lodowic, except the follow' g letter, which was brought to 
her the same evening by a peasant :- 

" Madam, — I send you by this page your glove, stained with the 
blood (itlie trav;or, formerly my friend. It grieves me that I cannot 
lay it with my ow hands at your feet, but a vow binds me to achieve 
deeds more worthy of your l^eauty and my devotion. To-morrow i 
set fonh for Cy^. us, and I shall not think myself entitled to your 
presence till I have strung the heads of a score of Turks at my saddle- 
bow. 1 ill then, 1 i amain in all loyalty, your true knight, 

" Lodowic." 

The hard-hearted one perused this letter with an equal mixture 0/ 



7«5 THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 

delight nrd doubt, for the style of the Germnn hitherto had been 
neither quaint nor hernical. She waited many long years, you may 
believe, for the heads of the infidels. In the menntinie, Lodowic had 
passed over into England, where he married the widow of a refiner, 
and soon became an opulent sugar-leaker ; for though he still iiad 
some German romantic flights on an occasion, he was as steady and 
plodding as a blind millhorse in his business. 



THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 

IT is a true proverb, that we nre hawks in discerning the faults o( 
others, but buzzards in spying out our own : and so is the other, 
that no man will act wickedlv iDcfore a mirror ; both of which sayings 
I hope to illustrate in the following story. 

The hereditary domains of the Malatesti, formerly a very ancient 
and noble family of Florence, were large and princely, though now 
they are alienated and parcelled out amongst numerous possessors, 
and the race which then owned them is extmct. After many genera- 
tions, the greater portion of the estates descended to a distant relation 
of the house, and the remainder to his kinsman, who had already some 
very large possessions of his own. 

This man, notwitlistanding he was so rich, and able to live, if he 
chose, in the greatest luxury and profusion, was still so covetous as to 
cast an envious and grudging eye on the property of his noble kins- 
man, and he did nothing but devise secretly how he should get th< 
rest of the estates of the Malatesti into his own hands. His kins- 
man, however, though generous and hospitable, was no prodigal or 
gambler, likely to stand in need of usurious loans ; neither a dissolute 
hver, that might die prematurely, nor a soldier ; but addicted to 
peaceful literarv studies, and very temperate in his habits. 

The mist rly man, therefore, saw no hope of obtaining his wishes, 
except at the price of blood, and he did not scruple at last to admit 
this horriljle alternative into his nightly meditations. He resolved, 
tlierefore, to bribe the notorious Pazzo, a famous robber of that time, 
to his purpose ; but ashamed, perhaps, to avow his inordinate longings, 
even to a robber, or else grud;4ing tiit high wages of such a servant of 
iniquity, he afterwards revoked this design, and took upon his own 
hands the office of an assassin. 

Accordingly lie invited his unsuspectingkinsman, with much specious 
kindness, to his own house, under a pretence of consulting iiiir. on 
some rare old manuscripts which he had lately purchased, a tempta- 
tion which the other was not likely to resist. He repaired, therefore, 
very readily to the miser's country-seat, where they sp';nt a lew days 
together very amicably though not sumiJ:uously ; ' it the learned 
gentleman was contented with the enterlainmeni ivhich he hoped to 
meet with in the antique papyri. At last, growing more impatient 
than was strictly polite to behold the manuscripts, he inijuired for 
them so continually, that his crafty host thought it was full time to 
■;how him an imurovement which he had designed upon his estate, 



THE FLORENTINE KINSMJlN. 7i'^ 

BTid which intended, as may be guessed, the addition of another terri- 
tory to his own. 

The «entlemnn, who, along with nlchemy and the other sciences, 
h id studied landscape gardt-ning, mide no difficulties ; so mounting 
their horses, they rode towards the middle of the estate into a deep forest, 
the gentleman discursing by the way — for the last time in his life 
possibly — on the cultivation of the cedar. The miser, with a digger in 
his sleeve, rode closely by his side, commenting from time to time on 
tiie growth of his trees, and at length bade his companion look 
towards the right, through a certain litile vista which opened towards 
tiie setting sun, now shining very gorgeously in the west. The 
unwary gentleman, accordingly turned his head on that side, but he 
had scarcely glanced on that golden light of heaven, when the miser 
suddenly siridte him a savage blow on the left breast, which tumbled 
him off his horse. 

The stroke, however, though so 'well directed, alighted luckily on a 
sinall volume of a favourite author which the gentleman wore con- 
stantly in his bosom. So that learning, which has brought so many 
to poverty and a miserable end, was for this once the salvation of a 
life. 

At first the victim was stunned awhile by the fall, and especially by 
the shocking treachery of his relation, who, seeing how matters went, 
leapt quickly down to despatch him ; but the gentleman, though a 
sciiolar, made a vigorous defence, and catching hold of the miser's 
arm with the dagger, he began to plead in very natural terms (for at 
other times he was a little pedantical) for his life. 

"Oh, my kinsman," said he, "why will you kill me, who have never 
wished you any harm in my days, but on the contrary have always 
loved you faithfully, and concerned myself at every opportunity about 
your health and welfare ? Consider, besides, I beg of you, hov/ nearlv 
we are allied in blood : though it is a foul crime for any man to lift 
an unbrotherly hand against another, yet in our case it is thrice 
unnatural. Remember the awful curse of Cain, which for this very 
act will pursue you ; and for your own sake as well as mine, do not 
incur so terrible a peniilty. Think how presumptuous it is to take a 
liie of God's own gracious creation, and to quench a spark which in 
after remorse you cannot by any means rekindle ; nay, how much 
more horrible it must be still to slay an immortal soul, as you tiius 
hazard, by sending me to my audit with all my crimes still unrepented 
upon my head. Look here at this very blood, which you have drawn 
from my hand in our "Jtruggle, how naturally it reproaches and stains 
you ; for which reason, God doubtless made it of that blushing hue, 
that it might not be shed thus wantonly. This little wound alone, 
wrings me with more pain than I have ever caused to any living 
creature, but you cannot destroy me without still keener anguish and 
the utmost agonies. And why indeed should you slay me? not for 
my riches, of which we have both of us more than enough, or if you 
wanted, Heaven knows how freely I would share my means with \ou. 
I cannot believe you so base as to murder me for such unprofitable 
lucre, but doubtless I have ofiended you in some innocent ■ way to 
provoke this malice. If I have, I will beseech your pardon a thousand 



738 THE FLORENTINE KINSMEN. 

times over from the simple love that I bear you ; but do not requite 

me for an imaginary wrong so barbarously. Pray, my dear kinsman, 
spare me ! Do not cut me off thus untimely in the happy prime of my 
days, — from the pleasant sunshine, and from the blessed delic;hts of 
nature, and from my harmless books (for he did not forget tiiose) and 
all the common joys of existence. It is true, I have no dear wife or 
ciiildren to weep for me, but I have many kindly friends tiiat will 
gr eve for my death, besides all the poor peasants on my estates, who 
will fall, I fear, under a harder lordship. Pray, my kinsman, spare 
me ! " 

But the cruel miser, in reply, only struggled to release himself, and 
at last prevailing, he smote the other once or twice again with his 
dagger, but not dangerously. 

Now it happened that the noted robber Pazzo, whom I have already 
mentioned, was making a round in the forest at the same time with 
the two kinsmen, and thanking Providence that had thrown into his 
path so rich a prize (for the rogue was very devout in his own way), 
he watched them along the road, for a favourable opportunity of 
assaulting them, and so became a witness of this murderous transac- 
tion. 

Pazzo himself was a brave man, and not especially cruel ; thus he 
was not sorry to see that a p.irt of his offic^ was about to be performed 
by another, and probably, too, he was secretly gratified to observe 
that a rich and reputable man could behave himself so like a despised 
rtibber : howbeit, he no ways interfered, but warily ambushed himself 
behind a large cork-tree to behold the sequel. 

He was near enough to hear all the speeches that passed between 
them, so that having still some human kindliness at the bottom of his 
heart, it was soon awakened by the gentleman's eloquent pleadmgs 
for his life : but when the assassin began to attacic him afresh, the 
cruelty of the act struck on him so forcibly, that he instantly leaped 
out upon the bloodthirsty miser, and tore him down to the ground. 
He was then going to dispatch him without further delay, but the 
generous kinsman entreating most earnestly for the wretch's life, and 
promising any sum for his ransom, Pazzo, with great reluctance, 
allowed him to remain unhurt. He bound his hands together, not- 
withstanding, and detained him as his prisoner; but he would accept 
of no money nor of any favour from the grateful gentleman, except a 
promise that he would use his interest with Government in behalf of 
any of the banditti who should fall into the hands of the police. 

They then parted with mutual courtesy, the gentleman returning 
home, and Pazzo repairing with his captive to the mountains, where 
he bestowed him as a legacy to his comrades, desiring them to liber- 
ate him only for an enonnous ransom. The sum was soon sent to 
their rendezvous, as agreed upon by his kinsman; whereunon the 
miser was suffered to depart ; and thenceforwards he cherished a 
gentleness of heart which he had been taught to value by some suffer* 
jngs amongst the mountains. 

As for the gentleman, he resumed his harmless and beloved studies, 
till being over-persuaded to publish a metaphysical work, on which 
he had been engaged for some years, the critics did for him what his 



THE CARRIER'S WIFE. 729 

kinsman had been unable to effect, and he died of chagrin. The 
miser thus attained in the end to his obj-Ct of inheriting the whole of 
the estates ; but he enjoyed them very briefly, and on his death the 
family of Malatesli became extinct. 

The ransom-money Pazzo distributed amongst his comrades, and 
then renounced for ever his former course of Ufe ; confessing that what 
had passed between the two Icinsmen had held up to liim such an 
odious pattern of his own wicked practices, that he repented bitterly 
of the acts of violence and injustice he had committed in liis profes- 
sion. In this manner he justified the sayings with which I set out in 
my story ; and afterwards, entering into tlie Venetian navy, he served 
with great credit against the Turks and infidels, and died at last 
btavely fighting with those enemies of our religion. 



THE CARRIER'S WIFE, 

IN the suburbs of Strasburg there lived a certain poor woman, by 
trade a sempstress, who was called Margaret. She was of the 
middle age, but so cheerful and sweet-tempered, and besides so 
comely, and of such honest repute, that many tradesmen of respect- 
able condition would have been glad to marry her. She had con- 
tracted herself, however, to one Kolmarr, a plausible fellow and a 
carrier, but in reality a smuggler and a very ruffian. Accordingly, whilst 
their honeymoon was yet in the wane, he began to use her very shame- 
fully, till at last she was worse treated than his mules, upon which he 
made her to attend whilst he was smoking and drinking with his dis- 
solute comrades. 

Margaret, notwithstanding, being very humble and industrious, 
would never have repined at this drudgery ; but on any ill luck which 
happened to him, his contraband wares being sometimes seized upon by 
spies, he would beat her in a cruel manner. She concealed this treat- 
ment, however, from everybody, hoping some day to reclaim him by 
kindness — never reproaching him, indeed, but by haggard and cartful 
looks, which she could not help, for she shrank as often under the 
pinching hand of want as from that of her brutal husband. Her 
beauty and strength thus decaying together, she became at last so dis- 
gusting to him, that if he had not been as cautious and crafty as he 
was cruel, he would have killed her without delay. As it was, he 
almost starved her, professing extreme poverty ; at which Margaret 
never murmured, but only grieved for his sake over his pretended 
losses. 

One day, as she was thus sitting disconsolate at her needlework, 
and thinking over her hard condition, she heard a gentle knocking at 
the door, and going to see who it was, she beheld her cousin, a pedhir, 
w ho travelled through the country with his box of wares. At first 
si:-;htof him she was very joyful, not having seen liim for many ye.irs, 
hut her heart soon sank again into despondence when she remem- 
bered how wretchedly she must entertain him, if at "U for if Kolmarr 



fOO THE CARRIER'S IVTFE. 

knew that she bestowed even a crust of bread, he would certainlv heat 
her. She bade her relation, however, to come in and rest himself. 

" Alas ! " she said, " I have nothing to t;ive thee for thy supper, the 
house is so bare ; and what is worse, I dare not mike amends to tliee 
with a night's lodgin:^', for my husband is a very shy. reserved man, 
wiio cannot endure the presence of a stranger : if he found any one 
here, therefore, at his return, although he is kind enough upon othei 
occasions, he would certainly chide me." 

Her kinsman, alter musing a little while over these words, answered 
her thus : 

'' Margaret, I perceive how it is. But do not be uneasy : the best 
houses may be found unprovided by a random comer. I am pre- 
pnred, you see, against such emergencies : here is a flask of good wine, 
with a dried fish or two, and a handful of raisins, — of which I shall 
be glad to see you partake. Come, fall to ; " and laying out his stores 
upon the tablt, he began to sup merrily. 

Margaret, :"^ this sight, was more alarmed than ever ; nevertheless, 
after many persuasions she began to eat also, but casting her eves 
continu.illy towards the door, as if she feared a visit from an Apennine 
Avolf. The time still drawing nearer for Kolmarr to return, she 
begged her kinsman to dispatch his meal, as he loved her, and then 
depart. " I will even do as you say," said he, still misunderstanding 
her ; " so now show me to my chamber." 

To this Margaret in great alarm replied with what she had told 
him before, beseeching him not to take it ill of her that he could 
not sleep in her house ; but to believe that she regarded it as one of 
her many misfortunes. 

" 1 understand you,"' said he, "very well ; but pray make me no 
more such excuses. I have told you I am not a man to quarrel with 
my accommodation. Though the bed be harder, and the sheets more 
coarse and ragged than you care to treat me with, I should lie very 
thankfully on the floor. So no words, woman, for hence I will not to- 
ni:_:ht for a king's bed of down " 

Margaret, finding him so positive, and observing, besides, that he 
was flu^lied witli wine, was fain to humour him ; however, as she 
knew he was a discreet man, and that he would depart before sunrise, 
she hoped he might be lodged there that one night without the know- 
led;^e of Kolmarr. She took him up, therefore, into the garret, which 
contained nothing but a low sorry bed and a long stout rope, which 
Kolmarr had left tiiere, probably, to tempt her to hang herself ; for 
she had sometiines slept ti.ere alone when he ill-treated her. Her 
cousin, nevertheless, swore that it was a lodging for a prince. 

" Nay," quoth she, "you are kind enough to view it so ; but it is 
grievously troubled with the rats, as I have had cause to know ; * and 
♦lien hastily bidding him good-night, she went down the stairs again, 
with her eyes brimful of tears. 

After she had been down a little while, Kolmarr knocked at the 
door, whicli made Margaret almost fall from her chair. He came in 
soberly, but in a grave humour, and observing how red her eyes v ere, 
ne pulled her to him, and kissed her with much apparent affection. 
The poor wom.an was too full at heart to speak ; but throwing her 



THE CARRIER'S WIFE. 731 

lean arms round his neck, she seemed to forget in that moment all 
her troubles ; and still more when Kolmarr, with a terrible oath, 
swore that after that night he would never fret her agam. 

'1 he grateful Margaret, being very humble and we ik-spirited, was 
ready to fall down on her knees to him for this unusual kindness, and 
her conscience smiting her, she was just going to confess to him the 
concealment of her cousm, and to beseech his forgiveness for that dis- 
obedience, as the first she had ever committed as his wife. But 
luckily she held her peace, for her fears still prevailed over her ; and 
'>n these terms they bestowed themselves together for the night. 

Now it was Kolmarr's custom of a night to pay a visit to his stable, 
ht, as a rogue himself, being very fearful of the dishonesty of others ; 
for which reason he likewise locked behind him the door of his bed- 
chamiier, in which he deposited his commodities. About midnight, 
therefore, Margaret heard him go down as usual, but his s^ay was 
three times as long as ever it had been before. She bee. me very 
uneasy at this circumstance, and, moreover, at a strong smoke which 
began to creep into the chamber ; whereupon, going to the window, 
she heard Kolmarr beneath, moaning like a person in great pain. In 
answer to her questions, he told her he had been beaten by some 
robbers, who had taken away his mules, and then set fire to the 
house. 

"The back of it," said he, " is all wrapt in a flame ; but what most 
grieves me of all, my dear Margaret, is that I cmnot rescue thee, 
seeing that in my strife with the vill .ins I have lost the key of the 
outer door. Nevertheless, if thou wilt take courage and cast thyself 
down, I will catch thee m my arms ; or at worst, I have dragged 
hither a great heap of straw, so that no harm may befall th^ precious 
limbs." 

The crafty ruffian, however, intended her no kinder reception thnn 
the hard bare earth would afford to her miserable bones. His 
brutality being well known in the country, he did not care to kill her 
openly, whereas in this way he hoped to make it apjjarent that her 
de.ith was caused by accident : and besides, as it would be in a 
manner by hi r own act, he flattered himself there would be the lesg 
guilt uiion his head. 

The window being very far from the ground, Margaret, however, 
hesitated at the fall ; and in the meantime the pedlar awaked, and 
smelling the smoke, and going forth to the window above, he over- 
heard the entreaties of Kolmarr. The danger, bv his account, was 
very imminent ; so stepping in again for his pack, which was very 
heavy, the pedlar pitched it out in the dark upon Kolmirr, who 
immediately began to groan in the most dismal earnest. The pedlar, 
knowing how heavy the box was, and hearing the crash, with tiie 
lamentations that followed, made no doubt that he had done for the 
man beneath ; so, without staying to make a.ny fruitless inquiries, he 
groped about for the rope which he had noticed in the chamber, and 
knotting it here and there, and tying one end of it to the bed, he let 
himselt down, as nimbly as a cat, to his kinswoman's window. Mar- 
garet, touched by the moans of her husband, hid just made up her 
mind to leap down at a venture, when the pedlar withheld her, and 



73* THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 

being very stout and active, he soon made shift to lower her down 
saiely to the ground, and then followed himself, like a sailor, by 
means of the rope. 

As soon as Margaret was on her feet, she sought for Kolmarr, who 
by this time was as quiet as a stone, and made no answer to her 
inquiries : the pedlar therefore concluded justly that he was dead, 
and speedily found out with his fingers th .t there was a great hole m 
the wretch's skull. At first he was very much shocked and troubled 
by this discovery ; but afterwards, goi'ig behind the house, and see- 
ing,' the smouldering remains of a heap of sirau' which Kolmar had 
lighted, he comprehended the whole matter and ws.s comforted. 
Then bringing Margaret, who was lamenting very loudlv, to the same 
spot, he showed her the ashes, and told her how foolish it was to 
mourn so for a wicked man, who had died horribly through his own 
plotting against her life. 

"The devices of the bloody man," said he, "have fallen upon his 
own head. Consider this, therefore, as the good deed of Providence, 
which, pitying your distresses, has ordained you a happier life here- 
after ; and for your maintenance, if God should fail to provide you, I 
will see to it myself." 

In this manner, comforting her judiciously, Margaret dried her 
tears, retleciing, as many women do, but with less reason, that she 
must needs be happier as a widow than she had ever been as a wife. 
As for what he had promised, her kinsman faithfully kept his word, 
sending her from time to time a portion of his gains ; so that, with her 
old tr.ide of sempsiress, and the property of Kolmarr, she was mam- 
tained in comfort, and never knew want all the rest of her days. 



THE TWO FAITHFUL LOVERS OF SICILY. 

IN the island of Sicily there lived a beautiful girl called Biancafiore, 
whose tallier was a farmer of the imposis in that kingdom ; she 
had several lovers, but the happiest one was Tebaldo Zanche, a young 
person of gentle birth but of indifferent estate, which caused him to 
be more favourably regarded by Bianca than her father desired, who 
had set his heart upon matching her with a certain wealthy merchant 
of Palermo. The power of a parent in those days being much more 
despotic than in our temperate times, the poor wretched girl was 
finally compelled to bestow her hand on the merchant, whereupon 
Tebaido instantly took leave of his country, and with a hopeless 
passion at heart wandered over Europe. 

As soon as she was married, Bianca was taken by her husband to 
his country house, which was situated on the sea-coast, towards 
Girgenti, his chief delight being to watch the ships, as they fared 
to and fro on their mercantile embassies, whereas they only recalled 
to Bianca the small white sail which had disappeared with the un- 
fortunate Tebaldo. This prospect of itself was sufficient to a;^'L;ravate 
her melancholy, but her residence on the sea-shore was yet to e.\pos€ 
Vker to still greater miseries. 



THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 733 

It was not uncommon in those days for the Barbary cruisers, those 
Aawks of the Mediterranean, to make a sudden swoop upon our coajt!^ 
and carry off with them, besides other plunder, both men and women, 
whom they sold into slavery amongst the Moors in default of ransom. 
In this manner, making a descent by night when Mercanti was absent 
at Palermo, they burnt and plundered his house, and took away 
Bianca, whose horror you may well conceive, when, by the blazing 
light of her own dwelling, she was carried off by such swarthy bar- 
barians, whose very langu.ige was a sphynx's riddle to her, and might 
concern her life or death, and then embarked upon a sea of fire ; for 
there happened that night a phenomenon not unusual in the Mediter- 
ranean, namely, the phosphorescence of the waters, which, whether 
caused by glowing marine insects or otherwise, makes the waves roll 
like so many blue burning flames. Those who have witnessed it 
know well its dismal appearance on a gloomy night, when the billows 
come and vanish away like fluxes of pallid fire, and withal so vapour- 
like and unsubstantial, that apparently the vessel, or any gross corporal 
substance, must needs sink into its ghastly abyss. With such a dredry 
scene, therefore, and in the midst of those tawny-coloured infidel 
Moors, with their savage visages and uncouth garments and glittering 
arms, 'tis no marvel if Bianca thought haself amongst internals and 
the demons of torture I'n the sulphurous lake. 

On the morrow, which scarcely brought any assuagement of her 
fears, they had lost sight of Sicily, and aulast she was disembarked 
at Oran, which is an African port, over against Spain. Meanwhile 
Tebaldo wns landing at Palermo, where he learnt, \\ ith a renewal of 
all his pangs, the fate of his beloved mistre-s. Forgetting all his 
enmity, therefore, he repaired presently to Mercanti, to concert with 
him how to redeem her out of the hands of the accursed Moors, a 
oroceeding which he would not have paused for, had fortune put it in 
Kis power to proceed instantly to her ransom. 

The merchant lamenting his years and infirmities, which forbade 
him to go in search of his wife, Tebaldo readily oftered himself to 
proceed in his behalf; adding, '"that it was only through the poverty 
of his means that he had not sailed already at his own suggestion, but 
that if Mercanti would furnish him with the requisite sums, he siiould 
hope to restore the unfortunate Bianca to his arms." The merchant 
wondering ver)- much at this proposal, and asking what securities he 
could offer for such a t''ust, — 

" Alas ! " quoth Tebaldo, " I have nothing to pledge for my perfor- 
mance, except an unhappy love for her, that would undergo thrice-told 
perils for her sake. I am that hopeless Tebaldo Zanche who was 
m.ide so eminently miserable by her marriage : nevertheless, I will 
forgive that, as well as all other mischances, if I may but approve my 
honourable regard for her by this self-devoted service. 1 here are 
yet some reasonable doubts you may well entertain of my disinter- 
estedness and fidelity on such a mission, and I know not how to 
remove them ; but when you think of the dangerous infidels in whose 
hands she now is, I have a hope that you may bring yourself to think 
her as s..fe at least in mine." 

The passionate Tebaldo enforced these arguments with so many 



y34 THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 

sincere tenrs und solemn oaths, and, besides, depicted so naturally 
the horrible condition of the lady amongst the Moors, that at last the 
merchant consented to his request, and furnishing him wiili the proper 
authorities, the generous lover, with a loyal heart which designed 
nothing less than he had professed, set sail on his arduous adventure. 

Let us pass over the hardships and dangers of such an enterprise, 
and above all, its cruel anxieties, the hopes which were raised at 
Tunis being wrecked again at Algiers, till at last he discovered 
Bianca amongst the slaves of the chief pirate at Oran, who, despairing 
of a ransom, began to contemplate her as his own mistress. Teb-ildo's 
bargain was soon made ; wliereupon the lady was set at liberty, and 
to her unspeakable joy, by the hands of her own beloved Zanche ; yet 
when they remembered the final consequence of her freedom, the 
brightness of their delight was quenched with some very bitter tears. 
The generosity of their natures, however, triumphed over these regrets, 
and with sad hearts, but full of virtuous resolution, they re-embarked 
together in a Genoese carrack for Palermo. 

And now their evil fortune still pursued them, for falling in with a 
Sallee rover, although they escaped a second capture by the fast- 
sailing of their ship, they were chased a long way out of their course, 
into the Straits of Gibraltar, and the wind turning contrary, increased 
towards night to a violent tempest. In this extremity it required all 
the tenderness of Tebaldo to encourage Bianca, whose low-spirited 
condition made her more fearfully alive to the horrors of the raging 
sea, which indeed roared around tiiem as if the watery desert had 
hungry lions of its own, as well as the sandy wastes of Africa, but ten 
times more terrible; the ship's timbers, besides, straining as if they 
would part asunder, and the storm howling through the cordage like 
the voices of those evil angels who, it is believed, were cast into the 
dreadful deep. 

When the daylight appeared there was no glimpse of any land, but 
the ship was tossing in the centre of a mere wilderness of sea, and 
under the pitch-black and troubled clouds, which were still driving by 
a fierce wind towards the south. The sails were torn into shreds, and 
the mariners, ignorant of where they were, let the ship drift at the 
mercy of the unmerciful elements, which slacked not tlieir fury be- 
cause the prey no longer resisted, but assaulted the helpless bark with 
unmitigated rage. 

It could be no great wrong of Tebaldo and Bianca if, at such a 
time, they exchanged one embrace to:4elher in everlasting farewell. 
Tliey then composed themselves to die calmly as became them, in 
each other's company, not with any vain shrieks or struggles, but 
lieroically, as they had lived and loved. Thus sitting together in a 
inartyr-like mood, and listening to the awful rushes ot the waters 
across the deck, they heard a sudden noise overhiad, which caused 
Tel^aldo to look forth, and, lo ! there were the drunken marineris 
putting off from the ship's side in the long-boat, being beguiled lo 
their fatt by a glimpse of land, which none but their exijeiicncc-d 
eyes could yet discover. However, they had not struggled far with 
their oars, when three monstrous curling billows, a great deal loftier, 
than any of the rest, turned lire boat over and over, washing out all the 



THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 1^ 

poor gnsping souls that were therein, whom the ensuing waves 
swatiowed up one by one, without even letting their dying cries be 
heard through the bewiidtring foam. 

Alter this sacrifice, as though it hnd appeased the angry deity of 
*-he ocean, the storm sensibly subsided ; and in an hour or two, the 
skies clearing up, Tebaldo perceived that they were off a small solitary 
island — the ship soon after striking upon a coral reef, about two hun- 
dred fathoms from the shore. The skies still frowning with a rear- 
Ward storm, Tebaldo lost no time in framing a rude raft, with spars 
and empty barrels ; upon which placing Bianca, with such stores and 
•cnplements as he could collect, he p iddled towards the land, where 
•^ney landed safely upon a little sandy beach. 

Their first act was to return thanks to God for their miraculous 
vjreservation, after which they partook of a repast that, after their 
.atigues, was very needful, and then ascended a gentle sloping iiiil 
which gave them a prospect of the island. It was a small, verdant 
place, without any human inhabitants, — but there were millions of 
marine birds upon the rocks, as tame as domestic fowls, and a pro- 
digious number of rabbits ; the interior country, besides, seemed well 
wooded with various trees, and the ground furnished divers kinds of 
/lerbs, and some very gigantic vegetables, together with many Euro- 
pean flowers, the transportation of which to such desolate and insular 
places is a mystery to this day. 

The weather again turning boisterous, they took shelter in a rocky 
cavern, which the kind hand of Nature had scoped out so commo- 
diously, that it seemed to have been provided with a foresight of their 
wants. Thus, with their stores from the ship, they were ensured against 
any great present hardships — but one. Many unlucky lovers, I wot, 
have sightd for such an island, to take refuge in from the stern-hearttd 
world ; yet htre were two such fond persons in such an asylum, 
betwixt whom fate had set up an eternal bar! Such thoughts as this 
could not but present themselves very sorrowfully to the minds of 
Tebaldo and Bianca ; nevertheless, he served her with the most tender 
and devoted homage, and as love taught hiin, contributed, by a thousand 
apt contrivances, to her comfort and ease. 

In this manner suppose them to spend five or six days — the cave 
being their shelter, and Tebaldo, by fishing, or fowling, or ensnaring 
the conies, providing a change of food ; so that, excepting the original 
hardship of their fortune, the lovers had little cause to complain. 
Their solitary condition, however, and the melancholy of Bianca, led 
to many little acts of fondness from Tebaldo, which were almost as 
p linful to exchange as to withhold. It was no wonder, then, if some- 
times in the anguish of his heart, some expressions of impatience burst 
from his lips, to which she answered «ith her tears. 

At last, o.ie day when they were sitting on a gusiy rock, which over- 
looked the sea, they both turned at once towards each other, with 
adverse laces and so despairing a look, that they cast themselves by 
common consent into each other's arms. In the next moment, how- 
ever, forcing themselves asunder, Teb.ddo began as follows, whiLit 
iiianca covered her face with her hands : — 

" I can bear this cruel life no longer ! better were we far apait, aj 



f36 THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 

when you were living in Sicily, and I roaming for unattainable peac« 
all over the worM. The restraint of distance was dreadful but involun* 
tnry, and r.otliing so painful as this ! Your tears flow before mysiL;ht, 
yet I must not kiss them away without tremblin;,;^, nor soothe your audi- 
ble srief upon my bosom, nor mingle my siglis with yours, though wa 
breathe the same limited air, and not in a distant clime. We were 
made for each other, as our mutual love acknowledges ; and yet here, 
where there be none besides ourselves, we must be several and 
estranged. My heart is torn asunder by such imperative contradictions. 
Methinks there be but us two real creatures in the world, and yet the 
horrible phantom of a third steps in between and frowns us miserably 
apart ! O Bianca ! I am crazed with doubts I dare hardly to name ; 
but if fate did not mean to unite us in revocation of its former cruelty, 
why should we be thus thrown together, where there are none besides ? 
As eternal a bar as was set up between us is now fixed between you 
and your husband, Nature herself, by this hopeless separation, divorc- 
ing you from all other ties. God knows with what scrupulous exactness 
I have aimed at the fulfilment of my promise — but it were hard to be 
bound to an impracticable solution. It was true we might not thus 
think of each other in Sicily, but we meet here as if beyond the grave. If 
we are, as I believe, in the forlorn centre of the vast ocean, what 
reasonable hope is there of our redemption ? Smce, then, we are to 
spend the rest of our days together in this place, we can wrong no one, 
but redress a great wrong to ourselves, by the stricter union of our 
fates, which are thus far already married together, until the tomb." 

The miserableBianca wept abundantly at this discourse; however she 
begged tliat Tebaldo would not mention the subject for at least seven 
more days, in which time she hoped God ihight save them from such a 
step by sending some ship to their succour. She spent almost all this 
interval in watching from the coast, but still there came no vessel, not 
so much even as a speck on the horizon, to give her any hope of return. 
Tebaldo then resuming his arguments, she answered him thus : — 

" Oh, my dearest Tebaldo ! let us rather die as we have lived, 
victims of implacable fate. ^San cast any reproach upon our innocent 
loves. As it is, no one can reprove our affection, which, though 
violently controlled, we have never disavowed ; but it would kill me 
to have to blush for its unworthy close. It is true that in one point 
we are disunited, but there is no distance between our souls. We 
may not indeed gratify our fondness by caresses, but it is still some- 
tiling to bestow our kindest language, and looks, and prayers, and all 
lawful and honest attentions upon each other ; nay, do not you furnish 
me with the means of life and everything that I enjoy 1 which my 
heart tells me must be a very gratcfiil office to your love. Be content, 
then, to be the preserver and protector and the very comforter of my 
life, which it is hapuiness enough for me to owe to your loving hands. 
It IS true that another man is my husband, but you are my guardian 
angel, and show a love for me that as much surpasses his love as the 
heavenly nature is above the earthly. I would not have you stoop 
from this pitch, as you needs must, by a defect of virtue and honour; 
Hill, if you insist, I will become what you wish, but I beseech you con- 
sider, ere that decision, the debasement which 1 must suffer ir your 



THE TWO LOVERS OF SICILY. 73T 

esteem. Nevertheless, before such an evil hour, I hope God will sen^ 
some ship to remove us, though, if I might prefer my owiT sinful will 
before His, I would rather of all be dead." 

The despairing lovers at these words wished mutually in their 
hearts that they had perished together in the waves that were fretting 
before them, — when Bianca, lookmg up towards the horizon, perceived 
the masts and topmast-sails of a ship, whose hull was still hidden by 
the convexity of the waters. At this sight, though it had come seem- 
ingly at her own invocation, she turned as pale as marble, and with a 
faltering voice bade Tebaldo observe the vessel, which with a death- 
like gaze he had already fixed in the distance : — for doubtless they 
would rather have remained as they were till they died, than return to 
the separation which awaited them in Sicily. However, the ship still 
approached with a fair wind, and at last put out a pinnace, which 
made directly towards the island. 

And now Tebaldo became a bitter convert from his own arguments, 
confessing tliat it was better to breathe only the same air constantly 
with Bianca than to resign her companionship to another ; neither 
did she refuse to partake m his regrets : and more tears were never 
shed by any exiles on the point of returning to their native land. 
With heavy hearts, therefore, they descended, hand in hand, like the 
fust pair of lovers when they quitted their paradise, to whom, no doubt, 
these sad Sicilians inwardly compared themselves, as they walked 
lingeringly to meet the boat, which belonged to a vessel of Genoa, and 
had been sent to obtain a supply of wood and water. The mariners 
wondered very much at their appearance, and especially at Bianca, 
who wore a fantastical cap, made of rabbit-skins, with a cloak of the 
same motley fur to defend her from the sharp sea-air ; and as for 
Tebaldo, his garments were as motley as hers, being partly seaman's 
apparel and partly his own, whilst his beard and mustaches had grown 
to a savage length. 

The sailors, however, took them very willingly on board, where they 
inquired eagerly concerning Mercanti ; but although the captain knew 
bim well, having often carried his freightages, he could give no tidings 
of his estate. He promised, notwithstanding, to touch at Palermo ; 
whither the ship made a very brief passage, to the inhnite relief of the 
lovers ; for now, after all their misfortunes, .hey were about to return 
to the same miserable point where they began. Bianca, therefore, 
spent the whole time of the voyage in grieving apart in her own cabin, 
not daring to trust herself in sight of Tebaldo ; who, on his part, at 
the prospect of their separation after such an intimate communion 
of danger and distresses, was ready to cast himself into the sea. 

Suppose them, then, arrived at Palermo, where Tebaldo, with a sad- 
der heart than he had foreseen, proceeded to complete his undertaking, 
by rendering up Bianca to her husband. He repaired, therefore, to 
the house, and inquired for Mercanti ; whereupon, being shown into 
his presence — 

" I am come," said he, "to render up my trust, and would to God 
that my life were a pai-t of the submissicn. I have redeemed your 
Hife, at the cost of your ten thonsand flor as and some perils besides j 

?. A 



IrsS THE VENETIAS COUNTESS. 

for which, if you owe me anything, I leave her my executor, for I have 

nothing left me now but to die." 

The merchant, looking somewhat amazed at his discourse, then 
answered him thus : — 

" If the lady you speak of is the wife of my brother, Gio. Mercanti, 
he has been dead these three months ; but I shall rejoice to bee her, 
and, likewise, to make over the properties that belong to her by his 
bequest. And for the eminent service you have rendered to her, for my 
late brother's sake, I will gratefully repay you ; his last words havmg 
been full of concern for his dear lady, and of confidence in the in- 
tegrity of the Signer Tcbaldo Zanche ; which name, 1 doubt not, you 
have made honourable in your own person. I beseech of you, there- 
fore, to lead me instantly to my kinswoman, that I may entertain her 
as s!ie deserves." 

The overjoyed Tebaldo, without waiting to make any answer *o 
these courtesies, ran instantly on board ship to Bianca, who now^ 
w'iti'.out any reserve, cast herself into his loving arms. She did not 
forget, however, the tears that were due to the generosity of her dead 
husband, but mourned for him a decent season ; after which, with the 
very good-will of her parents and all parties, she gave her hand to the 
f, lithful Tebaldo. Thus, after many tri.ds, which they endured nobly, 
they were finally made happy, as their long misfortunes and virtue 
well deserved ; and their names are preserved unto tUia da>, as the 
Two Faithful Lovers of Sicily. 



THE VENETIAN COUNTESS. 

THE face of the Countess Rovinello, in the portrait which is still 
in the family palace at Venice, bears many signs of that stern 
and gloomy disposition which produced such bitter fruits in th^ end 
to herself and to others. The nose, more Roman than aquiline, re- 
semlnling the features of the Caesars, denotes forcibly her masculine 
firmness and determination of purpose ; her dark eyes and lowering 
brow, the pride of her heart, scarcely less than that of the fallen 
Angel; and her puckered curing lip, the scorn and cruelty of her 
humour. Ambitious, inflexible, and haughty by nature, she was by 
education subtle, unmercitul, and a bigot ; the confessor Landino, a 
Jesuit, being constantly at her elbow, and holding the secret duection 
of ;ill her affairs. 

This man coming one day into her chamber, discovered the Countess 
in a fit of unconii oilable rage, a thmg in hen* very unusual ; for she 
disdained. ;. enerally, to show any outward signs of her emotions. 
Mistrustful, tlierefore, of her own voice, lest it should falter, she held 
but an open letter, her hand quaking all the time like an aspen leaf, 
and made a motion for Landino to read it ; who, as soon as he had 
glanced at the writing, gave back the f^aper with these words : — 

"This affair is old news with me. The blind passion of your son 
for the yoing English heretic was well known to me months ago, and 
nothing has been omitted to break oft so scandalous a match. I hav« 



THE VENETIAN COUNTESS. 73§ 

many skilful agents in England, but for this once they have been frus- 
trated in their endeavours." 

" Father," returned the offended Countess, "you are prudent and 
wise in most cases ; but would it not have been as well to have sh.ired 
your information with myself? The authority of a mother, in such a 
matter, mi.L;ht have had some weight in the scale." 

•' We have not failed," said Landino, "to menace him in the name 
of the Holy Church, the mother of his soul, whose mandates in autho- 
rity exceed those of the mother of his body. As for your ignorance, 
it was a needful precaution, that any acts of severity might seem the 
inflictions of the spiritual parent rather than your own." 

The Countess nodded her head gravely at this speech, to signify 
that she understood the hint of Landino, notwithstanding she felt an- 
ger enough at heart to have made her agree to any measures, however 
cruel, for the prevention of so hateful a marriage. Her great con- 
fidence, however, in the skill and subtlety of the confessor assured her 
that no means had been omitted for that design, and now it only 
remained to concert together by what means they could separate the 
young people from each other. In the meanwhile, the artful Landino 
had craft enough to discover that the Countess meditated a match for 
her son, which would not have suited certain political views of his 
own ; accordingly he changed his game, resolving that the marriage 
of Rovinello and the young English lady should stand good, trusting 
that he could afterwards mould it to his purpose. 

" What you say of separating them," he said, *' is well enough, as far 
as the mere punishment of the parties is concerned : but we must look 
beyond that to other coubideraiions. Nutiiing would be more easy, 
as you know, than to annul the marriage, for which the Holy Church 
hath ample power and a sufiicient good will ; but it will be a more 
difficult thing to disentangle their affections from each other. Granted, 
then, though you should even tear away your son by force from \.\\z 
arms of the heretic, it will be impossible to drive him against his will 
into any other alliance. As for the girl, she is of gentle birth and a 
large fortune, and for loveliness mignt be one of the angels, seeing 
which, it is a pity but to think on the peril of her immortal soul. 
Such a woman, as the wife of your son, brings us endless sorrow and 
shameful annoy, whereas such a convert would tend to our infinite 
honour, and at the same time prevent the misery of the young people 
here, as well as the perdition of a soul hereafter." 

The Countess understood clearly the drift of this discourse ; and 
after some further arguments it was aL;reed that she should receive 
the young people with an apparent kindness, and induce them to 
reside with her for some time at the palace, during which she was to 
exert her joint inlluence with Landino to convert the young lady to the 
Roman Catholic fa.th. 

It was with many justifiable mis.Liivings that Rovinello contemplated 
the introduction of his beautiful bride to his mother, for he knew her 
implacable nature. Notwithstanding, with the fond imagination of a 
lover, he hoped that the loveliness and gentle manners of his mistrest 
would finally overcome even the most stubborn of pi eju dices. Irust- 
(ng to this delusion, he took his wile to the palace of the Couale&^ 



74* THE VENETIAN tOVNT*j.SS. 

who was sitting, when they entered, on a couch at the further end of 
the apartment ; but Rovincllo could perceive a look on her counten- 
ance that filled him with despair ; for her dark eyes were fixed upon liim 
auite motionless, like those of a statue, and her lips were utterly white 
through passionate compression. Notwithstanding that the young pair 
had advanced to the middle of the chamber, she never rose from her 
seat, till Rovinello, coming up to her very feet, with a faltering voice 
presented the young lady to her notice. 

The inflexible Countess, in return, merely fixed her eyes on the 
Englishwoman, who at this str.mge reception began to shake all over 
with fear ; and the more, because she felt the hand of Rovinello trem- 
bling within her own. Alter a long silence, more dreadful than any 
words, the timid creature, plucking up her courage a little, began to 
speak as follows, with great sweetness of tone and manner :— 

" Pray, madam, do not scorn to receive me as your child, for I have 
no parent in this far-off land, unless the mother of my dear Rovinello. 
[ cannot bear to think that 1 am hateful to any one that regards him 
with affection : pray, therefore, do not spurn me thus from your 
heart." 

At the last of these words the Countess rose up, and with a tone at 
once calm and stern, and a befitting look, desired the young lady to 
kneel down and receive her blessing. The obedient girl, with bended 
knees and claspt-d hands, stooped down as she was commanded, at 
the feet of the hau:.;hty Countess ; and in this position heard, but only 
half comprehended, in Latin, the following sentences : — 

" From my mouth and from my heart, I curse thee, wicked heretic, t 
commend thee to flames here, and to flames hereafter. Amen ! Amen ! * 

I have said that the Englishwoman did not quite comprehend these 
words, but she saw by the ghastly countenance of Rovinello that they 
were very horrible. As for that unhap;)y gentleman, he let go the 
hand of his wife, and grasping his forehead between his palms, as 
though it were about to burst asunder, he stagijered a step or two 
apart, and leaned quite stunned and bewildered against the wall of 
the chamber. His cruel mother, noticing this movement, cast a 
fiercer look than ever towards the sp--echless lady, and then turning 
towards Rovinello, addressed him thus : — 

" Son, thou hast come home to me this day after years of travel ; 
but in such a manner, that I would rather behold thee crucified ;" and 
with that she pointed to a large ebony cross, whereon was the figure 
of our blessed Saviour curiously carved in ivory, the holy blood-drops 
being represented by rubies, so as to form a more lively effigy of the 
divine sacrifice. 

It was made evident by these speeches that the implacable temper 
of the Countess had overcome all the counsels of Landino, who en- 
tered just at this moment, to p^.nceive that his arguments hau been 
in vain. He reproved her with some asperity for her unchristian 
spirit, and her temper being by this time cool enough to be restrained 
bv policy, by dint of much dissembling there was an apparent recon- 
cHiation between all the parties. Thus it was arranged as had been 
concerted beforehand, Rovinello consenting, with i,'reat satisfaction, t# 
pass some months with his wife in the palace of his mother. 



THE VEKETIAN COUNTESS. 741 

The unhappy Englishwoman, however, though now living under the 
wme roof with the Colmtess, and caressed by her every day, began 
toon to find this reconcilement more mtolcrable than the former 
estrangement. At length Rovinello, seeing her grow more and more 
dejected, her beautiful eyes bein,? filled with tears whenever he 
returned to her, after even an hour's absence, began to inquire the 
cause. 

" Alas ! " she said, " I have cause enough to weep ; for I am treated 
here with such a cruel kindness, that but for your dear love, I should 
wish myself a hundred times a day in my peaceable grave ; — for 1 am 
assured, every hour, that the souls of my dear honoured parents are 
at this very time suffering unspeakable torments ; a saying which, 
whether true or false, ought to cost me a great deal of misery or dis- 
pleasure. To aggravate these feelings, the confessor Landino exhorts 
me so constantly to secure myself from the like perdition, that satisfied 
with a heart to love thee withal, I wish, sometimes, that I had no soul 
at all to care for." 

Having spoken thus with some bitterness of manner, she again fell 
a weeping ; whereupon Rovinello, touched with her tears, declared 
that her peace should no longer be assailed by such arguments ; and 
in truth, having sojourned some years in England, his own sentiments 
on such matters partook of the liberality and freedom which belong 
seemingly to the very atmosphere of that fortunate country. Accord- 
ingly, after making various excuses to his mother, he set off with his 
lady to a country-seat, which was sittiated on the sea-coast ; and here 
they lived together for some months very happily. 

At the end of that time, Rovinello received one day a letter which 
required his immediate attendance at Rome, and taking a very tender 
farewell of his lady, he departed. His affairs detained him four or 
five days at the capital, and then he returned home with all possible 
speed, indulging in a thousand fanciful pictures by the way of his 
wife's joyful endearments at his return ; whereas, when he reached the 
house, he was told that she had been carried off by force, no one knew 
whither, the servants being taken away likewise, in the middle of the 
night. A Moorish turban, which had been left in one of the rooms, 
supplied the only clue for discovery of her destiny, for in those days it 
was a common thing for the Algerine rovers to make a descent on the 
Italian coasts. The distracted Rovinello, therefore, went instantly on 
shipboard, and required to be carried over to Africa, intending at all 
perils to ransom his dear lady, or partake of the same captivity. There 
happened to be a neutral ship in the port, so that he engaged a vessel 
without much difficulty ; but he had barely been out at sea a few 
hnurs, when fresh thoughts flashed on his mind, now at leisure for 
deliberate reflection, and made him alter his course. It was ascer- 
tained, from other vessels they fell in with, that no Barbary ships had 
been seen latterly near the coast, and besides, the very partial plunder 
of his own mansion, in the midst of many others, made it seem an 
improbable act to have been C(;mniitted by the pirates ; he ordered 
the helm, therefore, to be put down, and returned immediatelv to the 
diore. 

And now a dreadful question began to agitate his mind, vhicli 



74* THE VENETIAN COUNTESS, 

whether with or Avithout reason, was very afflicting to entertain, for h 

seemed impossible, at the first t;iance, that any womanly heart could 
be so obdurately cruel and tigerlike as wilfully to disjoint the married 
love of himsrlf and ills lady by a deed so atrocious ; but when he 
recalled the s rn temper of his mother, and above all, her horrible 
malediction, >i s heart quite misgave him, and d'^livered him up to 
the most dreadful of ideas. It was rumoured, in ^ed, that Landino 
had lately been seen in the neighbourhood, and there were other sus- 
picious reports afloat amongst the country-people ; but these things 
were very vague and contradictory, and all wanted confir'^ation. 

The miserable Rovinello, with these suspicions in his bosom, 
repaired instantly to Venice, but the Countess was either guiltless, or 
else dissembled so plausibly, that his thoughts became more bewilder- 
ing than ever, and at length, through grief and anxiety, he fell into a 
raging fever. His mother attended upon him with the most affection- 
ate assiduity, almost to the removal of his doubts ; and especially as 
she seemed to consider his bereavement with a very moderate but 
sincere sorrow ; whereas, to judge by the common rule, if she had 
disposed herself of the unhappy Englishwoman, she should have been 
constant and violent in her expressions of condolence. 

In this inanner several weeks passed away, Rovinello being very 
languid from his illness ; at last, one day, afti-r being more agitated 
than common, he desired to take an s-nng with his mother in her 
coach, and was observed to be partici-^r in giving instructions to the 
driver as to his route. 'I'he man, attending to his commands with 
exactness, began to drive very slowly towards a certa' > spot, and at 
length stopped immediately in front of those terrible Lions' Heads of 
the Inc[uisition, which have heretofore swallowed so many secret 
denunciations. The Countess asking with some terror why he lin- 
gered at that spot, '' I am come here, mother," he said, " to await 
the result of a very curious speculation." 

With these words, he riveted his intense eyes upon those of the 
Countess, who very suddenly turned aside, and called out to th« 
driver to go on ; but the man remained still, according to the direc- 
tion of Rovinello. The latter had now raised his lean hand to the 
coach-window, and pointed to the gaping jav^s that received the 
accusations. 

" Mother," said he, "pray fix your eyeballs steadfastly upon mine ; 
and now tell me, have you never fed yonder cruel lions?" 

Hereupon he looked steadfastly upon the eyes of the Countess, 
which seemed instantly to reel in their sockets, and her cheek turned 
as pale as ashes. Rovinello, convinced of the guiltiness of his 
mother by her looks, did net wait for any other confession, but 
plainly saw his lady, as though through the solid stone walls, in the 
dreary dungeons of the Inquisition. In the meantime, his hand had 
dropped from the window to his cloak, where he had concealed a 
small pistol, loaded with two balls ; and setting the fat..l engine 
against his heart, without another word he discliaiged it into his 
bosom, before the very eyes of his unnatural parent. 

The servants getting down at the report, ran instantly to the door 
of the carriage, which was filled with smoke, so that at first they 



THE VENETIAN COUNTESS. 743 

could not perceive the nature of the calamity ; at length they dis- 
cerned the Countess, leanini; quite senseless against the back of the 
conch, her clothes bedabbled with blood, and the body of Rovinellc 
stooping forwprd upon her knees. It was plain that he was quite dead, 
wherefore, placinj; the body upon a kind of litter, some of the people 
carried it home to the palace. The miserable Countess was driver 
back to the same place, where she continued for many hours in frantif 
transports of horror and remorse ; and when she became calmer, i 
was only from her strength being so exhausted that she could neithf 
rave nor writhe herself any longer. As for the confessor Landino, hi 
was never suffered to abide an inst£.nt in her presence, though he made 
many such attempts,— the mere siv.ht of him throwing the wretched. 
Countess into the most frightful ecstasies. 

Some days after the catastrophe of Rovinello, there was a procession 
through the streets of Venice, which excited a lively interest amongst 
all classes, being nothing less than the progress of certain wicked 
heretics to the stake, where tliey were to be burnt, in order that the 
Christian spirit mij^ht revive, like a phoenix, out of the human ashes. 
There had not been a festival of this sort for some time before, so that 
the people prepared for it with great eagerness, all putting on their 
holiday clothes, and crowding into the streets, almost to their mutual 
suffocation, the day being very warm, but otherwise as fine and 
serene as could be desired for such a ceremony. 

The number of the wretched criminals was nine, of whom there 
was one woman. Their heads were all shaved, and their feet bare, 
with fetters round the ankles and wrists of each person. They were 
dressed in long, yellow, penitential robes, painted all over with fiery 
tongues, or flames, except on the back, where there was a large blood- 
red cross. Their caps were of the same colours, tall and pointed, in 
shape somewhat like extinguishers, though not mtended for that use, 
and each of the wretches held in his left hand a liL;htcd taper ; though 
this j>art of the show was rather dimmed by the brightness of the 
noontide sun. Certain bare-headed friars walked by the side of the 
criminals, holding up the cross at every few paces before their melan- 
choly eyes, and exhorting them to suffer patiently, and without any 
impieties, to which the doleful creatures made answer only by their 
boisterous lamentations. 

There were two of the procession, however, who differed in this 
particular from the rest, the first of them having become an atheist, 
itwas said, since his imprisonment by the Holy Office. This obdu- 
rate mg» marched along erect and silently, without either sigh or 
groan, fo the sacrifice, having first cast his taper in scorn amongst the 
populace, who would fain have torn him in pieces for this act of con- 
tempt, but for the consideration that he was going to make a more 
adequate expiation. 

As for the other person who did not join in the clamorous outcries 
of the rest, this was a female, young and beautiful, and, indeed, the 
wife of the unfortunate Rovinello, though that circumstance was 
unknown to the generality of the spectators. Her luxuriant hair had 
all been cut off, and she wore the same cap and robe M' humilia- 
tion with the others, but in going barefoot, her tender small white 



744 THE VENETIAN COUNTESS, 

feet were tipped with bloody red, like the morning daisies, througlj 
trampling on the rugged flinty-hearted stones. Thus she marched 
beside the atheist, not a whit more desponding than he, but with a 
better hope, looking often upwards towards the merciful skies, which 
contained the spirit of her beloved Rovinello. The multitude beheld her 
meekness and devout submission, lor so it seemed to them, with i;reat 
satisfaction, nor did the friars omit to point her out frequently, for the 
edification of the bystanders. 

And now, being come to the appointed spot, which was a convenient 
open space, the usual preparations were made for the burning. In 
the middle of the area stood four goodly stakes, which, as well as 
the f.iggots, had been smeared over with pitch and tar, that they 
might blaze the fiercer. The Chief Inquisitor, with the brethren of 
the Holy Office, were comfortably seated in front, to overlook the 
spectacle, and on either side the court and the nobility, according to 
their degree ; meanwhile the common rabble got such places as they 
could, some of them even hoisted upon the shoulders of their fellows. 
And truly it was a goodly sight to look round on such a noble 
assemblage, in their robes of state, the very common people having 
their holiday suits on, and piety and contentment shining together on 
every countenance. 

After sundry tedious formalities, the abominable atheist, being the 
chiefest heretic, was placed foremost, immediately under the eyes of the 
Grand Inquisitor, who desired nothing so much as the glory of his 
conversion. The priests of the Holy Office therefore used a thousand 
arguments to persuade him of his errors ; but the desuerate man 
refused to listen to their discourse, replying, when opportunity offered, 
only by the most scornful expressions. Thus, although there were 
three friars constantly exhorting him at one time, namely, two Car- 
melites and a Benedictine, they might as soon have persuaded the 
north wind to blow southward, as the current of his impiety to take 
another course. 

In order to save him from the guilt of further blasphemies, the 
Grand Inquisitor made a sign for the faggots (the priests having first 
duly blessed them) to be heaped around his feet, hoping by this prepara- 
tion to terrify him into recantation, whereas the unshrinking heretio 
looked on with the greatest composure. Observing that he smiled, 
the Grand Inquisitor demanded the cause of his mirth — for they wers 
near enough to hold a conference together. 

" I am thinking," said he, " how \ onder bald-pated monks, who are 
flinching from the heat of the sun, will be able to bear the fiery circles 
of glory which they promise themselves about their crowns." 

At this scoffing answer, his case seeming trulv desper ite, and his 
heresy incurable, the fire was ordered to be applied without further 
delay to the faggots, which kindling up briskly, the scornful counte- 
nance of the intidel was soon covered over by a thick cliuid of smoke. 
As soon as the flames reached his flesh, a sharp cry of anguish was 
heard through the upper vapour, and a priest stepping close in to the 
stake, inquired if the criminal yet repented of his damnable errors. 

" 1 called out," said he, " only for a little of your holy water." 



THE VENETIAN COUNTESS. 74S 

The friar, overjoyed at this triumph, stepped back with all haste to 
get some of the sanctified element, and began to sprinkle him. 

" Nay," quoth the relapsing heretic ; " I meant it only to be bestowed 
on these scorching faggots." 

At this fresh contempt the wood was stirred briskly up again, and 
sent forth redoubled volumes of fire and smoke, so that it was exident 
he would soon be consumed. The flames lapping him quickly all 
round, and driving the smoke into the upper region, the burning figure 
could plainly be distinguished in the midst, now thoroughly dead, the 
wretched man having been stilled in the beginning of the fire. Not- 
widistimding, on a sudden there was a loud shout from the people, "He 
is praying ! He is praying ! " and, lo ! the scorched black carcase 
was seen plainly to lift its clasped hands towards the skies. Now the 
case was this, that the cords which confined his arms being burnt 
asunder by chance, before those which bound his wrists, his arms by 
the contraction of the sinews were drawn upwards, in the manner I. 
have described — however, the multitude fancied quite otherwise, and 
the atheist is affirmed to have become a convert to this very day. 

A couple of wicked perverse Jews having been disposed of in the 
like way (the rest of the criminals, save the female, being recusants 
who had been brought to the stnke only for the sake of example) — 
there remained but the young Englishwoman to be dealt with. Dui'- 
ing the burning of the others, she had remained tied to the stake with 
the faggots about her feet, and the confessor Landino by her side, who 
promised himself much glory from her conversion, whereas she never 
condescended to listen to his harangues, but with eyes turned upward, 
and her mind absent, and in a better place, continued her secret pray- 
ers with much fortitude and devotion. The dreadful firebrand, which 
was made of three torches twisted into one, to typify the holy mystery^ 
being brought in readiness to kindle the fire, Landino besought her to 
consider whether her tender body could endure such torments. 

" By the help of God," she replied, " I will. The smoke of your last 
offering is already in the skies, and my spirit is fain to follow." 

The Grand Inquisitor hearing this answer, delivered with such a 
resolute tone and look, made a sign to Landino to let him speak. 

" Miserable child ! " he cried, " do you believe that the souls of 
heretics enjoy, at the very first, that blessed ascension? Wretched, 
wretched creature, you will learn otherwise in purgatory!" — and he 
made a sign for the torch to be thrust into the pile. 

"At least," interrupted Landino, '"at least confess the tender mercy 
of the holy church thou contemnest, who thus, by this charitable pur- 
gation of thy body, redeems thy soul from everlasting perdition ; by 
these flames temporary, absolves thee from flames eternal." 

" My parents," replied the lady very meekly, " were both Protestants ; 
and It seems most becoming, at this last hour of my life, to continue 
in that faith whereunto they bred me. As for your flaming charity, I 
pray God that it may not be repaid to you in kind, at the great day ol 
judgment;" with which answer she closed her eyes, and set herself 
steadfastly as if she would hear no more speeches. 

The confessor Landino, who heretofore had been unable to make 
any impression on her firmness, hereupon gave up all hope of p^ftvailin^; 



r45 A TALE OF THE HAREM, 

over her quiet but const:int spirit ; but ns for the Grnnd Inqui?;itor, hi 
was quite be\ ond his patience. " Let her be burned ! " he cried ; wiiich 
command was performed without delay. 

At the first sharp pang of the cruel tiames, a sudden flush, ar/ thoujih 
of red-hot blood, mounted up into the marble cheeks of the unfortunate 
Indy, and she drew her breath inwards with a very long shuddering 
sigh. The reflection of the increasing fire soon cast the same ruddy 
hue on the countenances of all the spectators, for the flames climbed 
with merciful rapidity up her loose feminine garments. Those who 
were nearest saw her head drop suddenly, as she choked upon her 
bosom ; and then the cords burning through and through, the whole 
lifeless body tumbled forward into the embers, causing a considerable 
flutter of dust and smoke ; and when it cleared away, there was no- 
thing to be seen but a confused heap of ashes and dying embers. 

Thus perished that lnvely, unhappv English gentlewoman, in her 
prime of youth, far away from all thit regarded her with love, and with 
few th:.t looked on her with anv degree of pity. And now the peo)ili3 
were about to depart with mutual congratulations, when suddenly there 
arose a great bustle towards the quarter of the Grnnd Inquisitor, and 
in a few moments the Countess Rovinello, in deep mourning, was seen 
kneeling at his feet. Her face was quite haggard and dreadful to look 
upon, and her dress so disordered as to make her seem like a maniac, 
but her gestures were still more frantic-like. Whatever her suit might 
be. the inquisitor seemed much ruffled, and got up to depart ; but she 
seized hold of his gown and detained him, whilst t,hc continued to 
plrad with great earnestness, 

" You are too late ! " he said, and withal he pointed his wand of office 
to the heap of black ashes that stood before him. 

The countess, letting go her hold, went and gazed for a minute on 
the cinders ; then stooping down and gathering up a handful of the 
dust, she returned, and before he was aware, strewed some on the head 
of the inquisitor, and the remainder upon her own. 

" Let these ashes," she said, " be in token of our everlasting re- 
pentance." 

After this awful ceremony, — neither of them without signs of remorse 
in their countenances, — they separated to console themselves as they 
might for their parts in this melancholy tragedy. 



A TALE OF THE HAREM, 

IN the maritime warfare betw^een the Genoese and the Turks, 
though the Mussulmans were worsted in nine battles out of ten, it 
hapuened soinetimes that one or two galleys of our own were taken by 
the infidels ; and through one of these mi-haps an Italian gentleman 
named Denetto, who was a singing-master, and on his p ;ssage to 
Lngland, became a captive to the enemy. Deing a very resolute man, 
he tought till there were more slasiies in his clothes than had been 
fashioned by the tailor • but the crew being mastered by a superior 
force, the nriusician was put in chains on board of the Turkish ship. 



A TALE OF THE HAREM. 747 

""he latter having L:^n well mauled in the engagement, with many 
*ron pellets sticking in her sides, and her tacklin;^' in a state of great 
disorder, made all the sail she cnuld into port, where the captives 
were disposed of as slaves to the highest bidder. 

Now it chanced luckily for Benetto, that he was purchased by an 
agent of the Sultan of Constantinople, and sent to woric as an assistant 
in the gardens of the Seraglio ; whereas others, being bou;4ht bv 
avaricious people, underwent a variety of changes, passing from one 
master to another, but without any difierence for the better in their 
condition. The fortunate Benetto, en the contrary, led an easy life 
enough, having oniy to tend upon the flowers and shrubs for the 
gratincation of the ladies of the Harem ; and what proved a great 
comfort to him was, that he had no mistress to mourn for in a distant 
country ; so that though he sighed sometimes for liberty, he never gave 
himself up to despondency like the rest of the captives. 

Thus he continued to dig, and water the plants very contentedly, 
as though he had been born for that task, being a man of that happy, 
cheerful disposition which can accommodate itself to any circumstances ; 
and besides, the superintendent of the pleasure-grounds was of as 
pleasant a humour as himself, which tended very matenally to his 
ease. And truly it was well that Benetto kept up a better heart than 
the captive Jews in Babylon ; for he had by nature a melodious voice, 
improved by art to great perfection, the science of music having been 
his peculiar study ; and oftentimes he beguiled himself after his day's 
work by singing over his most favourite airs. 

The apartment of the ladies of the Harem stood, luckily, at such a 
convenient distance, that Benetto's voice found its way through the 
w indows, which were sure to be left open every night, for the sake of 
the warbling of the nightingales that harboured amongst the trees. 
The discourse of the ladies turning one evening on the ravishing notes 
of that bird, and its amours with the rose, there came a deeu sigh 
from the bosom of one of the sultanas, a Circassian, and she affirmed 
that there was a voice more enchanting than that which had been so 
much commended. 

"As for the bird it belongs to," she said, "to judge from his tune, 
he must be of a most delicate figure and plumage ; for though 1 cannot 
make out a single word, there seems a most passionate meaning ip 
whatever he sings." 

At this speech, one of the ladies burst into tears, and leaned down 
her beautiful face between her hands ; for she was an Italian by birth, 
and remembered well the sweet languishing and love-breathing ditties 
of her n itive land ; the rest of the women crowding about lier at these 
SymiUoins of emotions, and inquiring the reason, 

" Alas ! " she sobbed, " the songs that you hear come from no bird, 
but from a human voice, which belongs to some unfortunate captive 
from my own dear country beyond the sea. I wonder not that you 
found It so touching, for that kintl of melody belongs naturallv to our 
clime. The songs there are so full of love and tenderness, th it the 
amorous rose, instead of merely opening her bosom as she does to the 
song of the bulbul, would put forth wings in place of leaves, to fly aflei 
the musician." 



74« A TALE OF THE HAREM. 

Nor did the fond lady speak beyond her feeling in this matter, so 
dearly does memory exaggerate the merits of thing's beloved. Anon 
the clear voice of Benetlo sounded again upon the distant wind ; and 
when it was silent, the mournful lady responded wiih a canzonet so 
exquisitely pathetic, that the listeners, though they did not comprehend 
even one syllable of the words, were melted instantly into tears. The 
singer herself, coming at last to a certain passage, which seemed to 
cause the very breaking of her heartstrings, was so overcome, that she 
could proceed no farther ; but, with a throat swelling with grief instead 
of harmony, cast herself upon a sofa, and gave way to an ecstasy of 
tears. 

In the meantime Benetto, hearing the voice in the garden, had drawn 
near to the window, and recognised the song to be one of the com- 
positions of Italy, which set his heart aching more seriously than ever 
since be had been a captive. However, he soon plucked up his 
spirits ; and congratulating hiniielf that there was one per^on at least 
in Constantinople to take part with him in a duet, he concerned him- 
self only to contrive how to get admitted to the concert. 

Accordingly, choosing the best of his pieces, he sang them in the 
garden every night with the tenderest expression, the ladies being al- 
ways confined alter dusk within the palace. At last, the Sultan 
happening to hear his music, had a mind to enjoy it nearer ; so, sending 
a slave to fetch the gardener into an ante-chamber, which was separ- 
ated from that of the ladies only by a silken curtain, Benetto was 
commanded to sing some of his btst songs. As he executed them in 
very excellent style, the Sultan, who had a good ear enough for an 
infidel, was exceedingly pleased with the performance. Commending 
the musician, therefore, in very gracious terms to Angelina, for that 
■was the name of the Italian lady, she made bold to answer him as 
follows : — 

"Sire, I agree with your Majesty, that the slave has a sweet voice, 
and an agreeable style of singing ; notwithstanding, there are several 
of the airs, and especially one piece, which, as far as I remember of 
the music, a '^"'", capable of much tenderer expression By your Majesty's 
leave, if I might hear that song once or twice over, I think I could 
remember the variations, which I think would afford your Majesty an 
increase of pleasure." 

The Sultan, who was passionately fond of her voice, immediately 
commanded Benetto to sing over again the last song, and which was 
an air capable of very melancholy cadences. Now Angelina was an 
imnrovisatiice, and could compose verses at pleasure, so \\ hen it came 
to lier turn to sing, she set extempore words in Italian to the music, 
which spoke to the following effect :— 

" Ah, Florence ! fair Florence ! city of my heart, shall I never behold 
thee again ? 

"There are marble walls between us, and gates of brass — but my 
thoughts go wandering up and down thy familiar streets ! 

" Methinks I see my beloved home, with the very flowers that I left 
growing upon the terrace ! 



A TALE OF THE HAREM. 749 

* Methlnks 5 see thee, gentle Arno, shining merrily in the sun ! 

" Alas ! my tears wash out this dream, like the colours on a cloud 
full of rain. 

" I look again ; and behold, there is nothing left but my prison 
wall ! " 



When she had done singing, Benetto, taking the hint, replied in the 
same manner, but with less eloquence ; telling her, in plain language, 
to keep up her heart, and that by God's help she should one day see 
Florence again. The concert being then ended, he was dismissed, 
with a piece of gold as a mark of the approbation of the Sultan. 

The next day, when the superintendent of the pleasure grounds was 
walking about the royal gardens, Benetto came up to him and asked 
for a saw, in order to cut down a ci.'rtain noxious tree. The super- 
intendent desiring to know which it was, Benetto pointed out a par- 
ticular tree, with a number of horizontal branches growing verv closely 
together, but the Turk would by no means suffer it to be cut down. 
It was of so rare a kind, he said, that he did not know even its name ; 
but Benetto, who had his wits about him, and knew that there was no 
other tree in the garden so likely for his purpose, did not give up the 
matter without another trial. 

Accordingly, taking care never to bestow any water upon the plants 
within a certain distance of the tree, there being at the same time a 
long drought, they soon sickened and withered up ; whereupon leading 
the superintendent to the spot, he pointed out this effect. 

" This baneful tree," said he, " of the name of which you are so 
ignorant, is without question the deadly Upas of the island of Java, 
which is of so poisonous a quality that it will not suffer any vegetable 
to grow under the shadow of its branches. Look how the herbs round 
it have all perished, as if they had been scorched up with fire ; and, as 
I have read, the human life is quite as liable to be affected by its per- 
nicious atmosphere. Thus, if any of the ladies of the Harem should 
by chance fall asleep under it, I doubt it would be as fatal as the Tree 
of Knowledge to their grandmother. We might as well chew the 
deadly leaves, as that anything of this kind should happen ; for our 
death would be as certain in one case as in the other. For my own 
part, though the least splinter of this cursed wood is mortal if it should 
enter into the flesh, I will cheerfully undertake the hazard of cutting 
down this dangerous trunk, rather than have such a dreadful responsi- 
bility hanging continually over my head.'' 

The good-natured superintendent agreeing with the prudence of this 
recommendation, Benetto got permission to cut down the tree as fast aj 
he would, which he did not fail to perform ; and after lopping away 
all the branches on two sides of the stem, in the manner of an espalier, 
he set down the tree carelessly in a by-corner of the garden. 

The same evening Benetto was sent for as before, to sing in th» 
ante-chamber ; and beginning with the same melancholy air, there 
came a voice suddenly through the silken screen, commanding him to 
desist. 

" I have been thinking," said the Sultan, as he turned to Angelina. 



750 A TALE OF THE HAREAi. 

who was sitting beside him on a sofa in the inner room ; " I have be«l 

thinking that I should like now to hear some lively tune : the songs I 
have heard hitherto, thoui^h very beautitul, were all of a niel mcholy 
cast ; and I am curious to know whether the genius of your music 
•will admit also of comical expression."' 

" I can assure your Highness," said the lady, " there is no country 
that can boast of such pretty little iaughmg canzonets as my own, for 
though we have borrowed many strains from the nightingale, we have 
others that warble as merrily as the carol of the morning lark." 

" You make me impatient to hear one," replied the .Sultan ; where- 
upon an attendant was sent to convey this command to Benetto, who 
immediately struck up a very lively tune ; and, as he had good news 
to communicate, he sang with unbounded gaiety and spirit. The 
words ran thus : — 

" Ladders there are none in this place, neither of ropes nor of 
wood! 

" But I have a pretty tree, with many branches, that will stand up- 
right against a w.iil ! 

*' What ii I should place it against a lady's prison, in the middle of 
the night ? 

" Shall I see a vision, like Jacob, of a figure stepping down my 
ladder, who looks like an angel of light?" 

The kidy, being overjoyed at these welcome tidings, sang with an 
equal glee, and made answer by the same tune in a similar way. 

'' O joy of joys ! — To hear this grateful ne^vs, there seems now but a 
mile, paved with wishes, between Florence and me. 

*• I feel myself already, like a bird with wings, amongst those pleasant 
boughs ! 

" Step by step, as I descend, I pluck the sweet apples of liberty 
which relis h even as the fruits of my own dear land ! " 

It happened that the piece they had been singing had a pretty little 
burthen at the end for two voices ; so that when the lady came to that 
part, Benetto joined in with the proper chorus of the song, to the great 
admiration of the Sultan, who ordered him a piece of gold on his dis-^ 
missal, which seemed to make the captive defer his plot for another 
ni-ht. 

On the following dav, about noon, when the superintendent as usual 
came into the gardens, he was amazed to see Benetto working at a 
parterre witli an extraordinary kind of hoe, the handle of which, rudely 
fishioned and rough, could not be less than a dozen feet long. The 
jolly Turk, tucking his h uids in his sash, fell to laughing iminodor- 
atcly at this whimsical sight, for Benetto wielded his implemenL with 
considerable awkwardness ; at last, fetching his breath again, he ia- 
"quired the reason of such an extraordinary appearance. 

Benetto, without turning liis head aside, answered very sedately, tha;' 
it was tiie universal custom of his country to use hoes with handles of 
tliat length. 

"ISow (iod forgive nse ! " answered the Mussulman ; '• but you have 



A TALE OF THE HAREM. 75 1 

made me long to travel, since there are such wonderful scenes to be 
enjoved abroad : " and with that he fell into a fresh convulsioh of 
laughter. 

In the meantime Ecnctto continued his work with inflexible gravity, 
though the exertion he used to handle the hoe with dexterity made 
the sweat-drops start out like great beads upon his forehead. At last, 
being fain to obtain a pause, he explained to the Turk, who had done 
laughmg, that it was common in Italy to employ those long-+iandlcd 
hoes, in order to reach the weeds in the middle of a parterre without 
trampling amongst the plants. 

"There is some reason in what you say," returned the superinten- 
dent ; and taking the tool out of the hand of Benetto, he made aim at 
certain weeds in the middle of the bed ; but at the very first stroke he 
mowed down a whole cluster of flowers. 

Thereupon bursting into a frtsh fit of mirth at his own clumsiness, 
the merry Turk thrust the wonderful hoe back again into tlie hand 
of the gardener, who resumed his labour with great earnestness ; the 
Mussulman in the meanwhile walking away, but often turnmg his 
head over his shoulder to look back at Benetto, who, as soon as the 
old fellow had gone out of sight, l.iid down the ponderous hoe with 
very great good-will, and began to chuckle in his turn. 

When the hour for music was come, he was summoned again to the 
ante-chamber, where he had the boldness, whilst he waited, to steal a 
peep through a crevice of the silken curtain, and discovered that his 
countrywoman was quite as beautiful a person as his fancy had sug- 
gested. He had taken care to compose some fresh words for the 
cpcasion, as well as to set them to another air, which he had not sung 
on any of the preceding nights : it had also a part for tw'o voices, 
which the lady happened to know, and the Sultan was so delighted 
with the liveliness of the music, that he made them sing it to him 
several times over. At last, just as they were commencing the ciiorus 
for the fourth time, his face very suddenly altered, from the greatest 
pleasure to a look of gloom ; and he turned his brows with such a 
frown upon the lady, that she stopped short in the middle of a 
note. 

" How is this ?" said he : "I understand nothing of the language, 
but I can perceive that you sing different words to the music every 
time that it is repeated." 

Angelina blushed and hung down her head at this abrupt question, 
for she could invent verses with far more facility than excuses. At 
last she told him, that it was usual in Italy to leave the words of such 
airy little songs to the fancy of the singers, and that, except when 
ti;;)se happeried to be persons of wit and genius, the verses were 
always composed of the most common-place expressions. 

The Sultan listened to this explanation with a very grave look, and 
after meditating a while, spoke thus : " Madain, you must not take it 
ill of me, but hereafter I shall desire the Dragoman (or Interpreter) to 
partake with me in the delight of hearmg you. He is as fond of 
music as I am, and will be able to satisfy me whether the poetry of 
what you sing is answerable, in stniiment, to the music." 

The lody and Benetto both suspected, from these expressions, that 



jrsa A TALE OF THE HAREM. 

the Sultan entertained some mistrust of them ; and therefore, whet 
they sang again, it was with some quaverings which did not belong 
to the composition. The Sultan at length signifying that he had 
heard enough, the singers desisted, and i^enetto was dismissed, foi 
this once, without any piece of gold, the Sultan intending secretly to 
reward him on the morrow with two hundred stripes of the bastinado. 

As soon as Benetto found his opportunity, he repaired therefore to 
the garden, convinced that it was time to put his design into execu- 
tion. The skies fortunately were full of clouds, making the night very 
obscure, except at some intervals, when the moon broke through the 
vapours ; so that he set about his work in the gloom with the greater 
contidence. Having learned at least the art of transplanting during 
his service in the gardens, his first step was to convey the tree, which 
h.is been already mentioned, towards the apartment of Angelina. 

Now, her chamber opened upon a long gallery or balcony on the 
outside of the harem, against which Benetto rested the tree as securely 
as he could : nor was this an easy performance, for it was as heavy as 
he could well carry, so that his joints even cracked beneath the weight. 
Afier resting awhile to regain his breath, he began to mount up his 
extempore ladder ; and as the branches were very close together, the 
ascent was quite an easy affair. Thus, he was able to look in at the 
lady's window in a very few seconds ; but, alas ! though he had not 
wasted a minute that could be saved, he was already too late, as will 
presently appear. 

It is a barbarous custom with the Turks, when they conceive any 
jealousy or disgust of their miitresses, to tie them up in sacks and 
cast them into the water ; the sea, which is the object of marriage 
with the Venetian Doges, being to the Ottoman Sultans the instrument 
of divorce. As soon, then, as Benetto' looked in at the window, his 
eyes were shocked by the sight of three black, savage-looking slaves, 
who were preparing for this cruel ceremony, the victim being no other 
than his own unfortunate countrywoman. Her mouth having been 
gagged beforehand, she could not utter any cries ; but with her 
hands she made the most piteous supplications to the cruel Moors, 
two of whom held the mouth of the gaping sack wide open, whilst the 
other with his rude, profane hands endeavoured by force to bind her 
delicate limbs. 

The terrified Benetto, who comprehended this scene at the first 
peep, felt such a shock as a sleeper who oversteps a precipice in his 
dream. A sudden swimming in his head made him ready to tumble 
off the tree ; but luckily his body was leaning against the rail-work of 
the gallery, so that he could not fall : in the meantime he was quite 
exposed to view from the window, but the blacks were so thoroughly em- 
ployed, that they had not time to cast a look that way. After a minute 
or two, resuming his presence of mind, he bent down his body so as 
to be concealed behind the gallery, and in this uneasy posture deliber- 
ated within himself how he ought to proceed. His first impulse was 
to rush in upon the ruffianly slaves ; but recollecting that he had no 
weapon, and that such an assault could but delay the fate of the lady 
for a few moments, he resolved on a more prudent course. 

Taking down his ladder, therefore, which now seemed twice af 



4 TALE OF THE HAREM. 7JJ 

burthensome as before, and his heart a great deal heavier, he set up 
the tree ag,iin--t the wall of the garden, on the side next the water, 
whose murni'urings through the stillness of the night he could suffi- 
ciently di^tinguish. 

It took him but a few moments to clamber to the top of the wall, b* 
the help of the friendly tree ; which, however, was too cumbersome to 
be dragged up after him in order to effect n descent on the other side. 
Ill nine cases out of ten, this would have been the natural oversight 
of a man intent upon the first step of his escape ; whereas the ingeni- 
ous Benetto had foreseen and provided against this difficulty. In a 
few minute-', therefore, he was safely landed on the other side ; and, 
without doubt, the superintendent, who ridiculed the gardener's long 
hoe, would h;ive changed his tone to see it hanging on the outer part 
of the wall, for the accommodation of Benetto ; for by this means he 
let himself down with ease, the handle reaching within a few yards of 
the ground. 

And now the moon, breaking a way through a sullen cloud, behind 
the chinks of which she had sometimes just glimmered like a bright 
fish entangled in a net, began to touch every object as with a silver 
wand : Benetto found it necessary, therefore, to shelter himself, like 
a man who shunned his own shadow, by going into the obscurest 
places, creeping on in this manner from tree to tree and from wail to 
wall, till he reached the water-side : but in wliat direction he should 
next proceed, in order to intercept the lady, was a question that got 
no better answer than those which are addressed to tlie echo. 

Whilst he was thus wandering, the three black slaves, having tied 
up the unfortunate lady in the sack, proceeded with their burthen, as 
they were directed, towards a lonely place on the banks of the Bos- 
pliorus, in order to bestow her in her L.st bath with the greater privacy. 
Now it happened, through the goodness of God, that there was an 
English sliip of war then lying off at anchor, having brought over an 
ambassador to the Sul)linie Porte ; and some of the sailors and junior 
officers, desiring a frolic, had put off secretly in the ship's boat, and 
landed about the same spot. 

These jovial men wandering about the shore, it fell out that they 
encountered with the blacks ; and being minded to joke with them, 
some of the sailors inquired by signs what they carried in that poke. 
The slaves, not caring to disclose the truth, made answer that it was 
some rotten wheat which they were going to cast into the sea ; and 
with that, they endeavoured td get away, not caring to have to do with 
drunkards, for the mariners rolled about a good deal, as they are apt 
to do on the dry land. Now the lady, wlio, though gagged, had yet 
the use of her ears, had overheard the question of the sailors ; and 
vhilst the slaves were answering, she began to wriggle herself about 
in the sack as violently as she could. '1 he sailor wlio stood nearest, 
observing this motion, did not fail to notice it to his comrades, and 
they became speedily as curious as himself to ascertain what it was 
that struggled so in tlie sack. The blacks, however, who relished them 
very little, still endeavoured tc break away, whereas the strangers 
were equally bent upon their own satisfaction, so that the parties came 
in a little while to blows. The sturdy seamen prevailing, and getting 

3 B 



7^ A TALE OF THE HAREM. 

possession of the sack, they soon discovered, with great indignntion, 

the nature of its contents ; whereupon the cowardly blai ^>s, not waiting 
for the buffets which they were certain to receive, took instantly .o 
their heels, and were out of sight in a minute. 

The English sailors, who can melt upon a proper occasion as learliiy 
as their own pitch and tar, were infinitely concerned at the condition 
of tlie poor lady ; wherefore, after releasing her limbs, as well ao ner 
tongue, which was not backward in thanks to her deliverers, they 
rowed back with all diligence to the ship, where Angelina was treated 
witii every kind of tenderness and attention. 

The discomfited blacks in the interim had got under the shadow of 
a high wall, where they sat down to take breath ; and after weeping 
together for a while, they all opened their mouths at once with the 
same question, to ask what was to be done. 

" For my part," said one, " I am not weeping thus merely because 
the lady has escaped, for we could easilv devise a lie to;4ether and 
declare that the job was done. But, alas ! I know that the chief of 
the eunuchs, old Abdalla, is so careful, that he will be waiting for us 
at the ducking place, to see with his own eyes that she is thrown 
in." 

The slaves, knowing this to be the most lik'^'ly case, began to shtd 
tears again, and howled in a low tone very dismally, for they felt that 
their he.ds were only fa>tened by a p^'ckthrcad to their shoulders. 
At last, Mezrou, who was the eldest, spoke as follows : — 

"Our case," said he, "is indted critical, so that my neck smarts 
already to think of the result. On the one hand, if we tell any lie, 
there is th,it accursed old chief of the eunuchs to detect us ; and on 
the other, if we confess the simple truth, our heads will still fly off, 
because we did not fight v\ith those sea-devils to the last extremity. 
I see therefore but one way to escape out of this scrape, which is, by 
putting some trick upon Abdalla. And now I think of it, there is a 
certain Frank lives hereabouts, who keeps a great sow pig in his back- 
yard ; and at the next house there is a baker, where we may obt.iin a 
sack. Now, if the swine were tied up fitly, and her head well muffled 
in my s;ish, so as to keep her from either grunting or squealing, I 
think the deception might pass ; but it must be dispatched vtry 
quickly." 

The other slaves thinking favourably of this scheme, they ran off 
together to the house of the baker, who was in bed ; but they oblijied 
him to get up and give them an emi>ty flour sack ; after which, going 
to the piysty of the Frank, they secured his sow in the sack, with a 
little difficulty. Then taking up the burthen between them, which 
was full as lively as the other had been, they trotted gaily down to the 
water-side, where they soon perceived some person pacing to and fro, 
whom they took at the first gl.ince for Abdalla. Going straight up to 
him therefore, without any mistrust, they all called out together, that 
they had brought the lady to be drowned, which was agreeable news 
enough to the man, for in truth it was no other than Benetto, wlio 
had been wandering up and down the shore, in the greatest uncerininty 
end despair. 

The words, then, had no sooner got clear of the thick foolish lips of 



A TALE OF TFIE HAREM. 755 

iKe blacks, than the musician be-^an tu deal about him so roundly, 
that the foremost was laid sprawling in a twinkling upon the earth. 
The other two, at this sight, foreseeing that they should have use for 
all the hands they had, immcciiattly pitched down the sack with very 
little ceremony ; and any one may conceive how this action increased 
the fury of Benetto. 

The battered bvvine resenting the outrage as much, and feeling her- 
self more at liberty, began at the same moment to strui;:-;le velicnii-ntly 
within the sack, so that she partly released her nostrils from the sasli, 
and began to call out w ith ali her brutal breath for iiberiy. 

Thus the rage of Beneito, wlienever he began to faint, was roused 
up again by these half-slitled cries ; which, struggling partly through 
tlie canvas and the linen, were equivo::al enough to be mistaken for 
the voice of Angelina, even by the ear of a musician. These excite- 
ments lending hiin treble courage and vigour, he was quite a match 
for the three slaves together, notwithstanding they fought lustily ; and 
doubtless something tragical would have ensued but for the thriftiness 
of the baker. 

This careful m^an. grudging to lend a new sack to strangers, had 
picked out an old one, the canvas of which was very rotten and full 
of patches ; so that as Benetto glanced his eyes every now and then 
towards the sack, to give himself fresh encouragement, on a sudden 
the cloth ripped up with a smart rer-ort, and tiie huge sow, jumping 
briskly out, went cantering off i/ome wards, with the sash round her 
head, and grunting ail the wa\' to denote her s itisfaction. 

The blacks, through this accident, having nothing to contei ,d f T, 
gave over tne contest ; and after a hitle grinnin;^ scampered away afic-r 
the pig, to make up-what story they could to the chief of the eunuchs. 

As for Benetto, he stood as if rooted to the spot, and stared on the 
remains of the s. ck like one who had just witnessed some great stroke 
of enchantment. No sight, in truth, could have caused him such an 
astonishment, unless, inueed, the spectacle of a sow turning before his 
eyes into a lady, for he had made certain of Angelina being within the 
sack, even to the seeing o*^ her, in fanc\', through her veil of canvas. 
At last, coming to his senses, and caichint: sight of the English vessel, 
his thoui;hts began to turn upon his own safety ; and stripping off his 
jacket and turban, he began to swim toward" 'he ship, though with 
threat difficulty, on account of his bruises. 

It would not be easy to describe iiis transp* ts, when he came on 
board and discovered Angelina : wheiefore, le, that topic be left un- 
touched, as well as the mirth which pi evailed at the relation of his 
adventures. The ship setting sail immediately for England, after a 
prosperous passage the two happy Italians disembarked at London, 
wiiere Benetto, by his skill in music and excellent singing, acquired 
an immense fortune in a very few years. Inthe meantime he espoustd 
Angelina, and finally returned with her to Florence, where they lived 
for many years in great happiness and very merrily ; for neither oi 
them could ever smell pork, or pass by ahogsty, without an inclination 
to la.ughter. 

As for the three bl.acK slaves, they wore their head.' some years 
lonjer than they expecfed, the lie they made up beioj?, credited b_^ 



756 THE CHESTNUT TREE. 

Ab^'alla, the chief of the eunuchs, who had never stirred out from thfl 
palace. The superintendent of the plciisure-grounds was, however, 
more unhicky, for he suffered some hundred stiipcs of the bastinado 
on the soles of his feet, for allowing the inno* "tions of Benetto. In 
consequence, there are no more upas-trees t« oe found in the royal 
gardens ; and the slaves labour, even unto tis very day, with hoes 
that are but a yard long in the handle. 



THE CHESTNl .'' TREE. 

IT is a deplorable custom with spe idthrifts, when their purses are 
empty, to replenish them at the cost of tlie dryads, often cuttin;^ 
down the very trees that have shelljred the most vener ible of their 
ancestors, as well as the limber which wants many years of its pruoer 
growth, according to the pressure of their wants. Many foolish 
persons, ai^ain, under false pretences of taste, will root up the sheltering 
woods and copses, that made comfortable fences against the inclement 
wind, thus letting in the unmitigated tempest to r.ige against their 
bleak, n.iked ni;msions ; both parties being equally mischievous m 
their way. There art other persons, however, who cut down their 
oaks and che-^tnuts for much better reasons, as you shall presently 
hear. 

A certain hidalgo was walking in a lonely plain, in the neighbour- 
hood of Granada, when he was suddenly attacked by a small «ild 
Spanish bull. The spiteful creature, with red sparkling e\es, and a 
body as black as any coal, made a run at the genticin.m so nimbly, 
that he had barely time to save himself by climbing up a large 
chestnut-tree ; whereupon the wicked be<;st begin to toss about the 
loose earth with great fury, instead of the human clay he had intended 
to trifle with. 

There is no such creature in the world as your bull for a revengeful 
memory, for he will cherish affronts or dislikes for a considerable 
while ; and besides, he takes iireat pleasure in anv premeditated 
"nischief, which he will pursue with a vast de d of patience. Thus, 
whenever the hidalgo set his foot upon the ground, the wily animal, 
who had kept at a convenient distance, immediately ran ni him again. 
80 that he was forced to betake himself to the tree with the utmost 
alacrity. Then the bull would stray farther off, still keeping a wary 
eye towards the tree, but feeding in the meantime so quietly, that 
every thought of malice seem d to have quite gone out of his round, 
roguish head ; whenas he was ready at a twinkling for a fresh car. er, 
his perseverance excelling that of grimalkin, when she sits watching 
at a mouse's street-door. 

The impatient hidalgo, weary nt heart of this game, where all his 
moves tended to no purpose, at last give up the point, and remo^'cd 
higher up in the tree, in order to amuse himself with the surrounding 
prospect, which w.is now enlivened by the oblique ravs of the declining 
sun. " I will wait," s lid he, " till night makes a diversion in my favour, 
ard, like ttie matadore, hangs her cloak on this wild devil's horns ; " b« 



THE CHESTNUT TREB. W? 

Jurning himself about from side to side, he began to contemplate the 

various objects in the distance. 

Whilst he was thus occupied, with his eyes turned towards the east, 
there carrie two men on foot from the opposite quarter, who, passing 
beyond the tree, approached the browzing bull without any kind of 
mistrust. The dissembling creature allowed them to come pretty 
near, without any suspicion ; and then suddenly charging at the two 
men, they were obliged to run to the tree as the only shelter, and with 
great difficulty clambered out of reach of his mischievous horns. The 
animal, being thus foiled for the second time, revenged himself on the 
hat of one of the travellers, which had been dropped in the race, and 
then began to feed again at the usual distance. 

The two pedlaii — for so they seemed— made several attempts, like 
the hidalgo, to getaway, but the bull still intercepted them in the same 
manner ; so that at last they were fain to dispose themselves as com- 
fortably as they .:ould on a lower branch, and await the pleasure of the 
animal, to proceed on their way. The hidalgo, being a shy, reserved 
man by nature, as well as very haughty on account of his nation and 
his birth, did not choose to make any advances towards his fellow- 
lodgers in the tree, who by their dress were people of the common 
sort. The two men, on their part, knew nothing of a third person 
being perched above their heads ; wherefore, to pass away the time, 
they began to talk over their aftairs together, with as much confidence 
as if they had been sitting in the middle of the great Arabian 
Desert. 

At first the hidalgo, being much occupied by his own reflections, 
did not listen very attentively to their discourse ; besides, he had a 
great contempt for the conversation of such vulgar persons, which 
would have prevailed over any common curiosity ; however, as some 
sentences reached him against his will, he happened to overhear a 
name passing between them that made him prick up his ears. 

"I am afraid, Gines Spinello," said one of the voices, "that this 
cursed creature will spoil our sport for to-night." 

Now it was no wonder that the gentleman became so much interested 
in their conversation, for the fellow just mentioned was a notorious 
robber, and the terror of the whole province. The hidalgo, therefore, 
felt a natural curiosity to behold so remarkable a character ; and 
peeping down very cautiously between the leaves, he saw the two 
men sitting astride, with their faces towards each other, on the lowei- 
most bough. They were so much below him, tliat he could not judge 
of their physiognomies ; but of course the very hair of their heads 
seestied, to his fancy, to partake of a very ruffianly expression. 

"As for that matter," returned Spinello, "our job to-night is a 
trifling one that may be dispatched in two hours. Wiiat frets me 
mere is to be obliged to sit thus, cock-horse, upon a cursed branch ; 
ior I have always a misgiving at getting up into a tree, since notrJng 
has proved so fatal to several of our gang." 

The other, laughing heartily at these expressions, which he sup- 
posed to allude to the gallows, Gines interrupted him in a very grave 
tone. 

"I mean no such matter," said he, "as you conclude. The gibbet 



<fS$ THE CHESTNUT TREE. 

indeed has made an end of some of us ; but the trees I mean were 
as much growing and flourishing as this. It was a clie-.tnut too, that 
cost so dear to poor Lazarillo ; wherefore, I would rather that this tree 
h.id been a cypress, or a yew even, or of some other kind." 

" For my pirt, chestnut '^r not,"s.iid the other, " I feel myself much 
beholden to this good plant : not\\ ithstinding, I should like to hear 
what happened to Lnzanllo, and the others ot the gang." 

The hidalgo by this time was quite as much interested in the mis- 
hap of Lnzarillo : so laying hims'.lf along tlie bough, and grasping it 
with both his arms, he stooped his he. id sideways as low as he could, 
to listen to the story that (}ines was going to relate. 

" You are aware," said Spinello, '' that when we have no affair of 
moment upon our hands, which requires us to go in company, it is 
usual for some of the cleverest amongst us to go abroad singly, on 
little adventures of their own. Thus it befel Lazarillo to take it in 
his head to pay a visit to a certain hidalgo, who resides not a long 
way from this spot. There was a clump of chestnut trees in front of 
the house, all ol them of wonderful bulk, having stood there a great 
many years, and it was the -season when they were in full leaf. 
Lazarillo, coming a little too soon, and seeing a great many lights in 
the windows, cl.imbered up into the greatest of thrse trees, which 
stood nearest to the house, in order to hide himself till dark, ns well 
as to observe what was going on within the house. The boughs being 
very broad and smooth, \v- found his nest comi'ortal'le enougli ; and, 
besides, he was very well diverted to w atch the motions of the servants, 
for some of the branches grew against the cliamber windows, so that 
he could even see how the people bestowed the plate and valuables 
against the night. Whilst he was amusing himself in this way, the 
hidalgo, v/ho had been out sporting, came homew.irds with his fowl- 
Jng-piece in his hand ; when just at this nick there flew up some large 
kind of bird, and made off directly for the tree." 

" Well, wherefore do you stop ?" asked the other rogue very eagerly, 
for at these words Gines had made a tolerably long pause. 

" I was thinking," s. '.id Gines, "that I he .rd a rustling overhead; 
but it was only some breeze amongst the leaves. I suppose the 
hidalgo was willing to discharge his gun before he entered the house, 
for it was loaded with very large shot, which are never used to kill 
birds with ; however, he tired after the fowl into the very middle of 
the leaves, and the devil guiding the lead, some of it went into the 
body of poor Lazarillo, who tumbled in a trice to the ground. If the 
shot had not killed him, the fall would have broken his neck, so that 
he was stone-dead upon the spot : ho-vever, to made sure of that 
matter, our governors made a point of hanging him afterwards upon 
another tree." 

Herewith Gines vented a thousand horrible imprecations against 
the unfortunate sportsman, v.-ho had the evil luck to be sitting at that 
very moment above his head. The unhappy hidalgo, though he 
was miserably terriiied, dared not even to quake — the least motion 
causing a rustling among the loaves, or a creaking of the bough ; and 
getting (ramped, as any one must, to ride so long on a wooden chest- 
nut horse, without a saddle, yet he could not venture to stretch a limb 



THE CHESTNUT TREE. 11% 

to relieve himselC In the meantime, fear caused such a boiling noisa 
in his ears, as if of the devil's cauldron at a gallop, that he could not 
make out the his';ory of the other robbers who hnd perished by means 
of the trees. The two rogues, on the contrary, iinding themselves 
very much at their ease, continued to gossip together with great cool« 
ness, though the bull had now removed to a considerable distance. 
The hidalgo, at last, resuming the use of his faculties, overheard as 
follow s : — 

"As for the chestnut trees," said Gines, " you will see the stumps 
of them to-niyht, for the hidalgo did not choose to leave a perch for 
any more such birds so near his house. But there are other ways 
to know what goes on within, as well as by looking through the 
windows ; and we shall soon see whether the people of this random 
shooter are more properly his servants or my own." 

At this insinuation, the wretched person who sat aloft could not 
help uttering a half-stifled groan, which would have infallibly betrayed 
him, if it had not passed for the grumbling of the bull. Notwith- 
standing, he had to endure still worse tidings ; to conceive which, 
suppose Gines to describe the abominable plot he had laid for the 
murder of the hidalgo— two of his servants being in the pay of the 
banditti, and engaged to admit them in the middle of the night. The 
rogues did not omit, moreover, to dispose of the two daughters of 
the unfortunate gentleman overhead ; and as their inclmations 
pointed differently, the one choosing the youngest, and the other the 
elder lady for a mistress, they soon came to an amicable understand- 
ing on this part of the design. Thus the hidalgo, who had always 
intended to match his children as he would, witliout question even of 
the girls themselves, was obliged to hear them disi-osed of before- 
hand, and without having any voice whatever in the affair. 

The encroaching dusk closing round, in the meantime, till the 
horizon was conhned within a very narrow circle, the two villains at 
last dismounted from the bough, and proceeded on their way without 
any interruption from the bull, who was now scarcely visible, amid the 
dist.mt shadows. As soon as the rogut-s were out of sight, the hidalgo 
scrambled do\vn the trunk, to the infinite relief of his limbs, which 
from long confinement to the same posture had grown as rigid and 
almost as crooked as the boughs they had embraced : however, the 
thought of what was to take place at home soon enforced a supple- 
ness in his joints, and he departed with a brisk sluifiling pace, from 
what had been to him such a very bitter tree of knowledge. 

The dreadful fear which had lately possessed his bosom turning, 
row that he was in safety, to the most revengeful feelings, he vowed, 
as he went along, that Gines and his gang should suffer in retaliation 
by the most exquisite torments. In this lurious mood, with clenched 
hands and teeth, and terrible emphatic steps, he entered his own house, 
and repaired straight into the apartment ot his daughters ; who, seeing 
tie flaming beacons of wrath in his countenance, were ready to swoon 
V. ith dismay. It alarmed them the more, that ihey had not expected 
l.im to return for the night, and being ignorant of the true occasion, 
tliey were led, by certain misgivings of their own hearts, to impute his 
anger to a very different cause, wherefore coming together with clasped 



f6o THE CHESTNUT TREE, 

hands, to Tcneel down at his feet, they besought him with many teaig 
to be more calm and temperate. 

At another time this strange conduct would have astounded the 
hidalgo, whereas, having other concerns in his mind, he did not stop 
to sift out the mystery, but, in as few words as he could, explamed the 
danger that was hanging over their heads. The two terrified maidens, 
at this horrible report, instantly forgot all other fears, for the mere 
words conjured up the figures of the banditti upon the vacant air ; but 
when the hidalgo came to spe.ik of the design of the robber and his 
comrade, how they were to make mistresses of the two ladies, they 
sent up together, as if from one throat, a shrill involuntary scream. 
Anon, running hastily to different closets, for the greater danger 
always swallow up the less in this manner, they dragged forward a 
brace of young comely gallants, who, on their part, seemed ready 
enough to protect them from Gines and his associates. 

The two chamiiions, as well as the hidalgo, were somewhat discon- 
certed by tliis abrupt introduction to each other, and the pale lily of 
fear that had blown on the checks of the damsels was burned up by a 
deep crimson blush. At last one of the cavaliers, addressing himself 
to the hidalgo, began to speak for both after this manner: — 

"Sir, I know that you cannot behold us with any welcome; and 
yet, for my own part, I am heartily thankful that we are here. Not- 
withstandmg the ungracious method of our introduction, we beg so 
much favour of you, as to be considered gentlemen for the present, 
and respecters of good manners, who desire nothing better than to 
make amends, by our timely services, for an untimely intrusion. By 
your good leave, therefore, we will help to defend these ladies against 
the robbers, — and as we are men of honour, it shall be left to your own 
discretion, whether ycu will bestow them upon us hereafter." 

As the young gentleman spoke this with an air of great modesty and 
sincerity, the hidalgo thought fit to accept of the assistance that was 
offered ; whereupon they began to consult together on the steps which 
should be adopted in such an extremity. Accordingly, it was con- 
certed to send for the two traitorous servants, one by one, into the 
chamber, where, as soon as they entered, they were seized, and bound 
hand and foot before they could think of any resistance. The wretched 
men, finding themselves in this dreary plight, and that their lives were 
at command, began readily to confess all they knew of the plot ; add- 
ing several particulars which had not been touched upon by Spinello. 
Amongst other news, it came out that the banditti had deposited their 
arms in readiness in a certain hollow oak, which stood in the rear of 
the house ; whereupon the hidalgo made a vow, inwardly, to cut 
down that dangerous tree, as he iiad done before by the chestnuts. 

It was towards midnij^ht, when Spinello, with his comrades, 
approached for the execution of their design. The night was very 
boisterous, with frequent ^usts of wind, that drove the low black 
clouds with i;reat rapidity across the sky. Thus every now and then 
there was a short bright glance of the moon, followed, at a few minutes' 
interval, by the most profound shadows ; and, by the help of those 
snatches of light, the desperate Gines led on his fellows, who were 
abotttJaialf-a-dozen in all, towards the hollow tree. 



THE CHESTNUT TREE. fti 

Now it happened, just as he came up, that a fresh cloud came ovet 
the face of the moon, so that the mark he aimed at was quite sw.illowed 
op in the gloom. Groping his way, therefore, with his hands, he 
began to feci about the ra;-;j4ed stem for the entrv to the m;igazine ; 
but he had no sooner thrust his arms into the opening, than they were 
seized by some person who was concealed within the hollow trunk. 

I know not whether Gines recalled, at this moment, his superstition 
about a tree, but he set up a loud yell of dismay. The hidalgo, who 
lay close by in ambush, with his party, instantly discharged a well- 
aimed volley at the rest of the banditti, who finding themselves 
betrayed, and without arms, took at once to their heels, leaving two 
that were miserably wounded upon the grass. By this time, Spinello, 
recovering his courage, made a desperate struggle to get away ; but, 
before he could disengage his arms, the hidalgo came up with his 
assistants, and the robber was quicklv overcome and secured. Of the 
other two men, one was already dead, the bullet having lodged in his 
breast : as for the second, his leg-bone was broken by a ball just above 
the ankle-joint, and it happened that this was the very same rogue 
who had gossipped with Gmes upon the chestnut-bough. 

It was a dreadful sight to behold the countenance of the latter, when 
he was dragged into the chamber, and how he foamed and gnashed 
his teeth at the two desponding varlets, who had been double traitors, 
he supposed, to both masters. Althou:^h he was so securely bound, 
those wretched men could not look upon him without an extreme 
trembling; however, when he was informed of the true cause of the 
discovery, he raved no more, remarking only to the other robber that 
his misgiving about the chestnut tree had been justified by the event. 

The hidalgo repairing afterwards, with the two young gentlemen, 
into the presence of his two daughters, there ensued many compliments 
between them, .and joyful congratulations on the conclusion of the 
danger. At last, the hidalgo growing more and more pleased with 
the graceful manners and conversation of his guests, his heart warmed 
towards them, and he began to wish that they were all but his sons. 

" Gentlemen," he said, "a late welcome is better than none at all, 
and especially when it comes maturely from the heart. Pray aceept 
of this apology for my tardiness, and for your great services I will try 
to make amends to you on the spot. Your gallantry and agreeable 
bearing persuade me that you are truly the honourai^le young persons 
that you have named to me ; and I rejoice, therefore, for my own sake 
as well as yours, that my daughters remain at my disoosal. If you are 
willing then to accept of each other, I foresee no difficulties — that is 
to say, provided you can both agree in your election, as readily as my 
other two robbers." 

It would be hard to declare whether the two ladies were most happy 
or confused by this unexpected proposal ; they therefore made off, with 
fewer words than blusiies, to their own bedchamber ; but the three 
gentlemen sat up together, for security, durmg the remainder of the 
night. 

On the morrow the criminals were delivered to the proper authorities, 
and the process with such atrocious offenders being very summary, 
they were executed, before sunset, in divers places about the province 



y62 THE FAIR MATD OF LUDGATE. 

For the mnst part, they were suspended on lofty vooden gibbets j 
but t!ie body of Sninello, in order to make the Errenter impnrSMnn, was 
hunij up on the very same chestnut tree that had led to his deteat. 



THE FAIR MAID OF lUDGATE. 

THE reign of King Charles the Second of England was markod by 
two great pubUc calamities : the fust of ihem. that memorable 
Plague which devastated London ; and then followed ih;it deplorable 
Fire which destroyed such a large portion of the same de\oted 
metropolis. 

It happened shortly before the pestilence, that the King had a desi'zn 
to serve in the city ; wherefore he rode that way on horseback, attended 
only by the Lord Rochester, and one or two gentlemen of the court. 
As they were riding gently, in this manner, ud the hill of Ludgate, 
towards St Paul's, tlie E irl observed that the King stopped short, and 
fixed his eyos on a certain casement on the right hand side of the way. 
The gentlemen, turning their heads in the same direction, immediately 
beheld a young and beautiful woman, in a very rich and fanciful dress, 
and worthv indeed of the admiration of the monarch ; who. with sheer 
delight, stood as if rooted to the spot. The lady, for a while, did not 
observe this stopp ige, so that the company of courtiers had full time 
to observe her countenance and dress. She wore upon her iiead a 
«mall cap of black velvet, which fitted very close, and came down with 
a point upon her forehead, where, at the pe.ik of the velvet, there hung 
a very larg peirl. Her hair, which was of an auburn colour and very 
abund:int, fell down on either side of her face in large rin^jlets accord- 
ing to the fashion of the time, and clustered daintily about her fair 
neck and bosom, several of the locks, moreover, being bound together 
here and there by clusters of fine iiearls. As for her boddice it was of 
white silk, with a goodlv brooch of emeralds in the shape of strawberry 
leaves, which were held together by stalks of gold. Her sleeves, which 
were very wide, and hung loise from the elbow, were of thesnme silk; 
but there was a short under-sleeve of peach-blossom satin, that 
fastened with clasps of emerald about the mid-.',rm. Her br.'.celets 
were ornamented with the same gem ; but the bands were of gold, as 
well as the girdle that encircled her waist.- Thus much the company 
could perceive, as she leaned upon the edge of the window with one 
delicate hand : at last — for in the meanwhile she had been steadfastly 
looking abroad, as in a reverie — she recollected herself, and, observing 
thai: she was gazed at, immediately withdrew. 

The King watched a minute or two at the window, after she was 
gone, like a man in a dream ; and then, turning round to Rochester, 
inquired if he knew anything of the lady he had seen. The Earl 
replied mstantly that he knew nothing of her, except she was the 
loveliest ere ture that had ever feasted his eyes ; whereupon thi* King 
commanded him to remain behind, and learn as many particulars as 
he could. The King, with the gentlemen, then rode on very thought- 
fully into the city, where he transacted wh.\t he had to do, and then 



THE FAIR MAW OF LUDGATE. 763 

returned with the same company b\' Cheapside, where they encountered 
the Earl. 

As soon us the King saw Rochester, he asked eaperly, " What n«ws?" 
"Whereupon the latter acquainted him with all he kne^v. "As for her 
name," he said, "she is called Alice, but her surname is swallowed up 
in that of The Fair Maid of Lud;jate — for that is her only title in these 
parts. She is an only child, and her father is a rich jeweller ; and so 
in faith was her mother likewise, to judge by this splendid sample of 
their workmanship." 

"Verily I think so too," returned the monarch ; "she must come 
to Court," and with that they began to concert together how to pro- 
secute that design. 

And doubtless the Fair Maid of Ludgate would have been ensnared 
by the devices of that profligate courtier, but for an event that turned 
all thou^'^hts of intrigue and liuman pie isure into utter desuondency 
and affright. For now broke out that dreadful pestilence which soon 
raged so awfully throu.uhout the great city, the mortality increasing 
from hundreds to thousands of deaths in a single week. At the first 
ravages of the infection, a vast number of families deserted their 
houses, and fled into the country ; the remainder enclosing themselves 
as ri;4idly within their own dwellings, as if they had been sep irately 
besieged by some invisible foe. In the meantime, the pestilc^ice 
increased in fury, spreading from house to h. use, and from street to 
street, till whole parishes were subjected to its rage. At this point, the 
lather of Alice fell suddenly ill, though not of the pest ; however, the 
terrified domestics could not be persuaded otherwise than that he was 
smitten by the plague, and accordingly they all ran off together, leaving 
him to the sole care of his afflicted i.hild. 

On the morning after this desertion, as she sat weeping at the bed- 
side of her father, the Fair Maid heard a great noise of voices in the 
street ; wherefore, looking forth at the front casement, she saw a 
number of youths, with horses ready saddled and bridled, standing 
about the door. As soon as she showed herself at the window they all 
began to call out together, beseeching her to come down, and fly with 
them from the city of death ; which touched the heart of Alice very 
much : after thanking tium, therelbre, v\ iih her eyes full of tears, she 
pointed inwards, and told them that her father was unable to rise from 
his bed. 

"Then there is no help for him," cried flugh Percy. "God receive 
his soul ! The plague is striding hither ver\ fast. I have seen tlie 
red crosses in Cheapside. Pray come down, then. fore, unto us, devest 
Alice, for we will w-ait on you to the ends of the earth." 

The sorrowful Alice wept abundantly at this speech, and it was some 
minutes before she could make any answer. 

" Hugh Percy," she said at last. " if it be as you say, the w ill of God 
be done ; but I will ne\er depart from the help of my* dear father;" 
and with that, waving her hand to them as a last farewell, she closed 
the casement, and returned to the sick chamber. 

On the inoirow the gentle youths came again to the house on the 
same errand, but they were fewer than before. They moved Alice by 
fheir outcries to come at last to the window, who replied in the san^a 



764 THE FAIR MAID OF LUDGATR, 

way to their entreaties, notwithstanding the fond youths continued t> 

use their arguments, with mnny prayers to her to come down, but she 
remained constant in her denial ; at length, missing some of the num- 
ber, she inquired for Hugh Percy, and they answered dejectedly, that 
he had sickened of the pla;4ue that very morn. 

"Alas! gentle kind friends," she cried, " let this be your warning, 
and depart hence in good time. It will make me miserable for ever 
to be answerable tor your mischances : as for myself, I am resii^ned 
entirely to the dispensation of God." And with these words she closed 
the window, and the melancholy youths went away slowly, except one, 
who had neither brought any horse with him, nor joined in the suppli- 
cations of the rest. The disconsolate Alice, coming afterwards to the 
window for air, beheld him thus standing with his arms folded against 
the door. 

" How is this, .Ralph Seaton, that you still linger about this melan- 
choly place .^" 

" Gentle Alice," returned Seaton, " I have not come hither like the 
others, to bid you tly away from hence; neither must you bid me 
depart against my will." 

" Ralph Seaton, my heart is brimful of thanks to you for this ten- 
derness towards me ; but you have a mother and sister for your care.* 

"They are safe, Alice, and far from this horrible place." 

"Would to God you were with them ! dear Ralph Seaton, begone: 
and the love you bear towards me set only at a distance in your pray- 
ers. I wish you a thousand farewells, in one word— but pray bes^one." 
And with that, turning away, with one hand over her eyes, she closed 
the casement with the other, as if for ever and ever. 

The next morning the young men came for the third time to the 
house, and there was a red cross but a few doors off. The youths were 
now but three or four in number, several having betaken themselves 
to the country in despair, and others had been breathed upon by the 
life-wasting pestilence. It was a long while before Alice came to the 
window, so that their hearts began to sink with dread, for they made 
sure that she was taken ill. However, she came forth to them at last, 
in extreme distress, to see them so wilful for her sake. 

" For the dear love of God ! " she cried, " do not come thus any more, 
unless you would break my heart ! Lo ! the dreadful si.,^nal of death 
IS at hand, and to-morrow it may be set upon this very door. Do not 
cause the curses of your friends and parents to be heaped hereafter on 
my miserable head. If you have any pity for me in your hearts, pray 
let this be the uttermost farewell between us." 

At these words, the sad youths began to shed tears ; and some of 
them, with a broken voice, beu'ged of her to bestow on them some 
tokens for a remembrance. Thereupon she went for her bracelets, 
and after kissing them, gave them between two of the young men. To 
a third she cast her i;love, but to Seaton she dropped a ring, which 
she had pressed sundry times to her lips. 

The day after the linal departure of the yc)ung men, the ominous red 
cross was marked on the jeweller's door; for, as he was known to be 
ill, it was supposed, of course, that his malady was the plague. In 
consequence the door was rigorously nailed up, so that no one coulj 



THE FAIR MAID OF LUDGATE. 765 

pass in or out, and moreover there were watchmen appointed for the 
same purpose of blockade. It was the duty of these attendants to st e 
that the people within the suspected houses were duly supplied with 
provision : whereas, by the negligence of tht se hard-hearted men, it 
happened frequently that tiie persons confined within perished of ab- 
solute want Thus it b(?rel, after some days, that Alice saw her fatner 
rel.ipsing again, for the lack of mere necessaries to support him in his 
weakness, his disorder having considerably abated. In this extremity, 
seeing a solitary man in the street, she stretched out her arms towards 
him, and besought him for the love of God to bring a little food ; but 
the bewildered man, instead of understandin;^, bade her "flee from 
the wa'ath to come," and with sundry leaps and frantic gestures, went 
capering on his way. 

Her heart at this disappointment was ready to burst with despair; 
but, turning her eyes towards the opposite side, she perceived another 
man coining down the street, with a pitcher and a small loaf. As soon 
as he came under the window, she made the same prayer to him as to 
the former, beu;;-;ing him for charity, and the sake of her dear father, 
to allow him but a sup of the water and a small morsel of the bread. 

" It is for that purpose," said the other, " that I am come." And as he 
looked upward she discovered that it was Seaton, who had brought 
this very timely supply. "You may eat and drink of these," he con- 
tinued, " without any suspicion, for they come from a place many miles 
hence, where the infection is yet unknown." 

The heart of Alice was too full to let her reply, but she ran f rth- 
with, and fetched a cord, to draw up the loaf and the pitcher withal, 
the last being filled with good wme. When her father had finished 
his repast, which revived him very much, she returned with the jutcher, 
and let it down by the cord to Seaton, who perceived something glit- 
tering within the vessel. 

"Ralph Seaton," she said, "wear that jewel for my sake. The 
blessing of God be ever with you in return for this precious deed ! but 
{ conjure you. by the Holy Trinity, do not come hither again." 

The generous Seaton with great joy placed the brooch within his 
bosom, and with a signal of farewell to Alice, de: arted without another 
word. And now her heart began to sink again to think of the morrow, 
when assuredly her beloved parent would be reduced to the like 
extremity ; for during all this time the negligent watchmen had never 
come within sigl-.t of the house. All the night hours she spent, there- 
fore, in angui-h and dread, which were still more aggravated by the 
dismal rumbling of the carls, that at midnight were used to come 
about for the corpses of the dead. 

In the middle of the nigiit one of these coarse slovenly hearses, with 
a cargo of dead bodies, passed through the street, attended by a bell- 
man and some porters, with Aiming torches, unto whom the miserable 
Alice called out with a lamentable voice. The men, at her summons, 
came under the window with the rart, expecting some dead body to 
be cast out to them, the mortality admitting of no more decent rites ; 
but when they heard what she wanted, they replied sullenly, that they 
had business enough of their own to convey away all the carrion, — and 
BO passed on with their liornbie chimes. 



f66 THE FAIR MAID OF LUDGATE. 

The morning was spent in tlie same alternaticns of fruitless hopt 
and despair, till towards noon, when Seaton came again witli the 
pitcher and a small basket, wliich cont.iined some cold baked meat, 
and other eatables, that he had procured with infinite p.iins from a 
country place, at a considerable distance. The fair maiden drew up 
these supplies with great eagerness, her father beginni.ig now to have 
that appetite which is one of the first svmptoms of recovery from any 
sickness ; accordingly he fed upon the victuals with great relish. The 
gentle Alice, in the meanwhile, lowered down the empty basket and 
the pitcher to Seaton, and then again besought him not to expose 
himself to such risks by coming into the city ; to which he made no 
answer but by pressing his hands against his bosom, as if to express 
that such errands gratified his heart ; whereupon she made fresh signs 
to say laiewel), and he ciep.irted. 

In this manner several weeks passed away, the gallant youth never 
failing to come day after day with fresh prnvisinn, till at last the old 
jeweller was able to sit up. The gracious Providence preserved them 
all, in tlie meantime, from any attack of the pestilence, though many 
persons died every day, on botli sides of the street, the distemper being 
\\. its worbt pitch. Thus the houses became desolate, and the stre.ts 
silent, and beginning to look green even, by the springing up of grass 
between the untrndden stones. 

The prison-house of the F^dr Maid of Ludgate and her father soon 
became, therefore, very irksome, and especially when the latter got 
well enough to stir about, and to bt-hold through the window these 
symptoms of the public calamity, which filled him with more anxiety 
than he had evtr lelt, on account of his dear child, whose life was not 
st cure, any more than his own, for a single hour. His alarm and 
disquiet on this account threatening to bring on a relapse of his 
malady, the tender girl found but little happiness in his recovery, 
which seemed thus to have been altogether in vain. And truly, it 
was a sufficient grief for any one to be in the centre, though unhurt, 
of such a horrible devastation ; whereof none could guess at the 
continuance, whether it would ce-se of its own accord, or rage on till 
there were no more victims to be destroyed. 

The plague, however, abated towards the close of the year, when 
the King, who had removed with his Court to Windsor in the midst 
of the alarm, felt disposed one day to pay a visit to the metropolis. 
Accordingly, mounted on horseback, he rode into town, accompanied 
by the Lord Rocliester, and the same gentlemen who had been his 
attendants on the former occasion. 

The monarch was naturally much shocked at the desolate aspect of 
the place, which, from a treat and populous city, had become almost 
a desert ; the s- und of the horses' hoofs echoing dismally throughout 
tlie solitary streets, but bringing very few persons to look cut at the 
windows, and of those, the chief part were more like lean ghastly 
ghosts than human living creatures. In consequence he rode along 
in a very melancholy mood of mind, which the pleasant Earl en- 
deavoured to enliven by various witty jests, but without any effec', 
for they sounded hullovv and untimely, even in his own car. 

At last, arriving at the Hill of Ludgate, and the image of the Fiu 



THE FAIR MAID OF LUDGATE. 76 J 

Maic coming to his remembrance, the King looked towards the house, 
and lo ! there frowned the horrible red cruss, which was stih distinct 
at'on the door. Immediately he pointed out this deadly signal to 
Roi hester, who had already noticed it, and then both shook their 
heads, meaning to say that she was dead ; however, to make certain, 
the Earl alighted, and knocked with all his might at the door. But 
there was no answer, nor any appearance of a face at any window. 
Thereupon, with very heavy hearts, they rode onwards for a few doors 
farther, where there was a young man, like a spectre, sitting at an 
open casement, with a large bcok like a Bible in his hands. The 
King, who spied him first, asked of him very eagerly whether the 
Fair M.nd cm Lvdgate vvas alive or dead, but the ghostly man could 
tell iiothit:g of thv- matter, except that the jeweller had been the very 
iirst person to be seized l)y the plague in tlieir quarter. Thereupon 
the King made up las mind that the fair Alice had perished amongst 
the many thousand victims of the pest, and with a very sorrowful 
visage he rode on through the city, where he spent some hours in 
noticing the deplorable consequences of that visitation. 

Afterwards, he returned with his company by the same way, and 
when they came towards the jeweller's house in Ludgate, there were 
several young men standing about the door. They had been knock- 
ing to obtain tidings of the Fair Maid, but without any better success 
than before ; so that, getting very impatient, they began, as the King 
came up, to cast stones through the wii'dows. The Earl of Rochester 
seeing them at this vain work, called out as he passed, 

" Gentlemen, you are wasting your labour. The divinity of your 
city is dead ; as you may know, by asking of the living skeleton at 
yonder casement." 

At these words, the young men supposing that the Earl had autho- 
rity for what he said, desisted from their attempts, and the two 
companies went each their several ways ; the King with his attend- 
ants to Windsor, and the sad youths to their homes, with grief on 
all their faces, and very aching hearts, through sorrow for the Fair 
Maid of Ludgate. 

As for the gallant Ralph Seaton, he had ceased to come beneath 
the window for some time before, since there was no longer any one 
living within the house to drink from his pitcher, or to eat out of his 
basket. Notwithstanding, he continued now and then to bring a few 
pieces of game, and sometimes a flask also, to the father of Alice, who 
lived under the same roof; for the elder Seaton was a good yeoman 
of Kent, and thither Ralph had conveyed the old citizen as sonn as 
he was well enough to be removed. The old jeweller outlived the 
plague by a score of years ; but the Fair Maid of Ludgate, who had 
survived the pestilence, was carried oft shortly afterwards by marriage, 
the title which had belonged to her ID the city being resolved iiitu 
Uiat of the Da:ne Alice bei^toa. 



768 



THE THREE BROTHERS, 

ABENDALT of Bagdnd had three sons ; the two eldest, very tatt 
and pioper youths for their years ; but tlie youngest, on account 
of the dwitrfisliness of his stature, w.is called little Agib. He had, 
ruHvvithstanding, a wit and shrewdness very unusual to any, especially 
of his childish age ; whereas his brothers were dull and slow of intel- 
lect, to an extraordinary de;;ree. 

Now Abeci '"i though he had money, was not rich enough to leave 
behind him a competence for each of his sons ; wherefore he thought 
it best to teach them in the fiist instance to scrape together as much 
as they could ; accordinijly, calling them all to him, on some occasion, 
he presented to qach a small canvas purse, with a sequin in it, by way 
of handsel, <ind then sjioke to them to this eflect : 

'• liehold ! here is a money-bag a-piecf, witli a single sequin, for you 
must furnish the rest by your own industry. I shall require every now 
and then to look into your purses, in order to see what you h.ive 
added ; but to that end you shall not have any recourse to theft, o. 
violent robbery, for money is often purchased by those methods at to< 
dear a rate ; whereas the more you can obtain by any subtle strata 
gems, or smart siroki s of policy, the greater will be my opinion of you 
hopefulness and abilities." 

The three brethren accepted of the purses witli great goodwill, and 
immediately began to think over various plans of getting money ; so 
quickly does the desire of riches take root m the hum.m bosom. The 
two elder ones, however, beat about then- wits to no purpose, for the> 
could not start a single invention, excei-.t of be,;ging alms, whi^h thev 
would not descend to ; whereas the little Agib added another piece of 
money to Ins sequin before the setting of the sun. 

It happened that there lived at some distance from Abendali an old 
lady, who was bedridden, but very rich, and a relation of the former, 
though at some degrees removed. As she was thus lying in her cham- 
ber, she heard the door open, and Agib came in, but he was so little 
that be could not look upon the bed. The hidy asking who it was, he 
answered and said '" My name is little A<:^ib, and 1 am sent here by 
my father, your kinsman, who is called Abendali ; for he desires to 
know how you are, and to wish you a thousand years." 

The old lady wondered very much that Abendali was so much con- 
cerned for her, since they had not held any correspondence together 
for a long while ; however, she was very well satislied v\ ith his atten- 
tion, and gave a small |,iece of money to Agiti, desiring the slaves 
moreover tc brtng him as many sweetmeats as lie liked. The brethren 
showing then purses at night to their father, the two eldest had only 
their sequin a-piece, whereas little Agib had thus added already to his 
store. 

On the following day, little Agib paid another visit to thesirk lady, 
and was as w ell treated as before. He repeat; d the same compliments 
very many times afterwards, adding continually fresh moneys to his 
purse ; at last, Abendali, passing by chance in the same quarter of the 



THE THREE BROTHERS. 769 

city, took it into his head to inquire for his kinswoman ; and when 
he entered her chamber, lo ! there sat Httle Agib behind the door. As 
soon as he had delivered his compliments, which the lady received 
very graciously, she pointed to little Agib, and said she had taken it very 
kindly that the child had been sent so often to ask after her health. 

" Madam," said Abendali, who laughed all the while, " the little liar 
has not told you one word of truth. I know well enough why he came 
here, which was on none of my errands." 

The little Agib prudently held his peace till his father was gone, 
whereupon the old lady asked him how he could be so wicked as to 
deceive her with such multiplied lies. 

"Alas !" said Agib, pretending to whimper very much, "I hope 
God will not punish me with a sore tongue for such sinnmg. It is 
true, as my father says, that he never commanded me to come ; but 
I was so scandahsed at his shocking neglect, that I could not help 
calling upon you of my own accord, and making up those messages 
in his name." 

The old lady hereupon was so much touched with the seeming piety 
and tenderness of little Agib, that she bade him climb upon the bed 
and kiss her, which he performed ; and because he had come so disinter- 
estedly, and not. she believed, for the trifling pieces of money, she gave 
him a coin of more value, to make amends, as she said, for Abendali's 
injurious suspicion. 

The same night, when he looked in Agib's purse, the old man saw 
that he had three pieces more ; at which he nodded, as if to say I 
know where these came from : whereupon Agib, being concerned for 
the honour of his ingenuity, spoke up to his father. " It is not," said 
he, " ^s you suppose ; these two pieces I obtained elsewhere than at 
the place you are thinking of ; " and with that he appealed to his 
brethren. 

" It is truth," said the eldest, '* what he speaks. Observing that he 
had every night a fresh piece of money, whereas we that are his 
elders could get nothing at all, myself and my brother besought of 
little Agib to acquaint us with his secret for making gold and 
silver; but he would not part with it, unless we gave him our two 
pieces, and thus we have no money whatever." 

With that the elder brothers turned both at once on little Agib, 
calling him a liar and a cheat ; for that, when they called on the old 
lady, instead of giving them a piece of money or two, as he had 
reported, she said that she knew wiiat they came for, and withal bade 
them to be thrust forth from the chamber. 

During this relation, Abendali cduld not help laughing secretly at 
the cunning of little Agib, who had thus added his brothers' money 
to his own ; however, he quieted the two elder ones, by declaring that 
Agib had told them the truth. 

About a month after this time, the Angel of Death called upon 
Abendali, and touching him on the right side, bade him prepare to 
die. Accordingly the old man sent for his sons to his bedside, and 
after embracing them tenderly one by one, spoke as follows : — 

" My dear children, you will find all the money that I have in the 
tv-orld in a great earthen pot, which stands in a hole of the wall, 

3 c 



fTO TBE THREE BROTHERS, 

behind the head of my couch. As for its disposal my will is this, that 
it shall be equally divided between you two, who are the eldest. As 
for little Agib, he has wit enough to provide for himself, and must 
shift as he can." 

With these words he died, and the sons turned his face towards the 
east, — the two eldest setting themselves immediately to divide the 
money between them, m order to divert their grief; whereas little 
Agib, having nothing to do, shed a great manv tears. However, it 
happened so, that the soul of the infirm kinswoman of Abend. ill took 
flight to God the same evening, and she left by her will a sum of 
money, that m ide Agib equal in me.ms with his brethren ; whereupon, 
having something likewise to occupy his thoUj^hts, his eyes were soon 
as dry as the others. 

After a decent senson, the three brothers, desiring a change of 
scene, and to see a little of the world, determined to travel : accord- 
ingly, bestowing their money about their persons, thev set forth in 
conip.my, intending to go towards Damascus ; but, before they had 
gone very tar, tiiey were set upon 'by a band of thieves, who took 
away all they had. The two elder ones, at this mischance, were very 
much c;ist down ; but little Agib, who was no worse off than he had 
been left by his father, kept up his heart. At last they came to a 
town, where Agib, who never had any mistrust of his wit, took care to 
hire a small house without any delay ; but his brethren were very 
much dismayed at so rash an act, for they knew that there was not a 
coin amongst them all. Notwithstanding, Avib, by several dexterous 
turns, made shift to provide something every day to eat and drink, 
which he shared generously with the others, exacting from them only 
a promise that they would hfl|) him, whenever they could. 

At last even the inventions of little Agib began to uui, and he was 
walking through the streets in a very melanchr-lv manner, when he 
espied an old woman making over tow.irds an artificer's with a brazen 
pan in her arms. A thought immediately came into his head : there- 
fore, stopping the woman before she could step into the shop, and 
drawing her a little way apart, he spoke thus : " I doubt not, my 
good mother, that you were going to the brazier, to have that vessel 
repaired, and I should be loth to stop the bread from coming to any 
honest man's mouth. Notwith tanding, I have not eaten for three 
davs ;" here the little hypocrite began to shed tears ; "and as I know 
something of the craft, if yru will allow me to do such a small job for 
you, it will be a great chanty." 

The old woman, in reply, told him that she was indeed going to 
the brazier's on su':h an errand, but nevertheless, the vessel having a 
flaw at the bottom, she was very well disposed to k-t him repair her 
pan, as it woulu be an act of charity, and especially as he would no 
doubt mend it for half-price. The little Agib agreed to her terms ; 
whereupon leading her to the door of his house, he took the [)an from 
h.cr, and desired tier to call again in a certain time. 

'llie brethren wondered very much to see Agib with such a vessel, 
when they had not provision to make it of any use ; but he gave them 
no hint of his design, requiring only of ihum that they would go 
tbroad, and rais^e money upon such parts of their raiment as they could 



THE THREE BROTHERS. 771 

ipare. The two elder ones, having a great confidence in his clever- 
ness, did as they were desired, but the greater part of their clotlies 
having been pledged in the same way, they could borrow but twu 
pieces for their turbans, which were left as security. 

As soon as he got the money, Agib ran oft to the brazier, who has 
been mentioned before, and ordered him to repair the brass pan in his 
best manner, and witliout any delay, which the man punctually ful- 
filled. Thereupon Agib made him a present of the two pieces, which 
amounted to much more than the usual charge for such a job, and 
made iiaste home with tht- pan, where he arrived but a breathing space 
before the old woman knocked at the door. She was very much 
pleased with the work, f r the pan had a brave new bottom, perfectly 
\\atertiL;ht and neatly set in ; but the moderate charge that was 
demanded by Agib delighted her still more, wherefore she began to 
hobble off, with great satisfaction in her countenance, when he 
beckoned to her to come back. 

" There is but one tiling," said he, "that I request of you, which is 
this ; that you will not mention this matter to any one, for otherwise, 
as I am not a native of the place, 1 shall have all the braziers of the 
town about my ears." 

The old woman promised readily to observe his caution ; notwith- 
standing, as he had foreseen, she told the stc^ry to every one of her 
neighbours, and the neighbours gossiped of it to others, so that the 
fame of the cheap brazier travelled through the "hole of her quarter. 
Thereupon, every person who had a vessel of br.iss or copper, or a 
metal pan of any kind that was unsound, resolved to have it mended 
at so reasonable a rate ; and each one intending to be beforehand with 
the others, it fell out that a great mob came all at once to the door. 

As soon as Agib heard the knocking, and the voices, and the 
jangling of the vessels, for the good people made a pretty concert 
without, in order to let him know what they wanted, he turned about 
to his brothers, and said that the time for their usefulness was 
arrived. Thereupon he opened the door, and saw a great concourse of 
people, who were all talking together, and holding up towartls him the 
bottoms of kettles and pans. Whenever he could make himself heard 
through tlie clamour, he desired every one to make a private maik 
of their own upon the metal, which being done, he took in the articles 
one by one, and appointed with the owners to return for them on the 
morrow at the same hour. 

The things which had been brought made a goodly heap in the 
chamber, being piled up in one corner to the very top of the room, a 
sight that amused Agib and his brothers very much, for the latter 
made sure that they were to sell the whole of the metal, and then 
make off with the money, which was quite contrary to the policy of 
Agib, who remembered the injunctions of Abendali as to the danger 
of such acts. However, there was no time to be wasted, having such 
a quantity of work before their eyes ; accoidin.c^ly, bidding his brotliers 
perform after his example, Agib sat down on the floor with one of the 
brazen vessels between his legs, and by help of an old knife and some 
coarse sand, scraped and scoured the bottom till it looked very bngh* 
and clean. The two eldest laboured after the same manner with 



y7« THE THREE BROTHERS. 

^cat patience, and persevered so steadfastly, that by daylight the 
bottoms of the vessels were all shining as brilliantly as the sun. 
'* Now," said Agib, " we may lie down and rest awhile, for we have 
done the work of a score of hands." 

At the time appointed, which was about noon, the people came in 
a crowd, as before, to fetch away their pans, every one striving to be 
first at the door. In the meantime, Agib had the vessels heaped up 
behind him, so as to be conveniently within reach ; whereupon, open- 
ing the door, and holding up one of the articles in his right hand, one 
of the crowd called out, " That is my pan ! " Immediately Agib 
reached forth the vessel to the owner, and without a word stretched 
out his left hand for the money, which in every case was a piece of 
the same amount that had been paid by the old woman ; and his two 
brothers, who stood behind with blacked faces, to look like furnace- 
men, put all the coins into a bag. In this way, Agib, as fast as he. 
could, delivered all the things to the people ; who, as soon as they 
saw the bright bottoms of their pots and kettles, were well satisfied, 
and withal very much amazed to think that so much work had been 
performed in such a little space, 

" It is wonderful ! it is wonderful ! " they said to each other ; " he 
must have a hundred workpeople in his house !" and with that and 
similar sayings they departed to their homes. 

When the last of the potbearers was gone out of sight, Agib told his 
brothers that it was time for them to leave the place ; whereupon the 
duUwitted pair began to think of redeeming their turbans, and in 
spite of the entreaties of Agib, being very obstinate, as such thick- 
skulls usually are, they went forth on that errand. In the interval, 
Agib, who had many misgivings at heart, was obliged to remain in 
the house, so that the event fell out as unhappily as might have been 
foretold. In a little while, some of the people, who had paid for the 
mending of their pans, found out the tricic, and these telling the 
others that were in the same plight, they repaired suddenly to the 
house, before Agib had time to escape, and carried him into the pre- 
sence of the Cadi. 

The furious people told their story all at once, as they could, to the 
judge ; and witlial they held up so many shining pan-bottoms of brass 
as well as copper, that he was quite dazzled, and almost as blind as 
Justice ought to be, according to the painters. Many of them, 
besides, to eke out their speech, laid sundry violent thumps upon the 
twanging vessels, so that such an uproar had never been heard before 
in the court. As for Agib, though he felt his case to be somewhat 
critical, he could not help laughing at the oddness of the scene ; and 
there were others in the hall, who laughed more violently than he. 

It was a common thing with the Caliph of Bagdad to go in disguise 
through his dominions, as well to overlook the administration of justice 
in different places, as for his own private diversion. Thus it happened 
at this moment, that the Caliph was standing, unrecognised, amongst 
the spectators of the scene. He laughed very heartily at the eagerness 
of the complainants and their whimsical concert. At last, sending his 
royal signet to the Cadi, with a message that it was his pleasure to try 
the cause himself, he went up into the judge's seat. 



THE THREE BROTHERS. 773 

As soon as the accusers perceived the Caliph, they set up a new 
clamour, and a fresh clatter of their pans, so that he had much ado to 
preserve his gravity and his eyesight. However, when he had heard 
enough to comprehend Uie matter, he commanded them to hold their 
peace, and then called upon Agib to say what he could in his defence. 

" Commander of the Faithful ! " said Agib, " I beseech but your 
gracious patience, and I will answer all this rabble, and their kettles 
to boot. Your majesty must know then, that yesterday morning these 
people all made even such a tumult about my door as you have just 
heard. As soon as ever I came forth, they held up the bottoms 0/ 
their vessels one and all towards me, as they have just done to your 
majesty ; and if the Commander of the Faithful understands by that 
action that he is to mend all the bottoms of their pans, I confess that 
I am worthy of the bastinado." 

The Caliph laughed more heartily than ever at this idea of Agib's, in 
which he was joined by all the unconcerned parties in the court, 
whereas the panbearers looked very much disconcerted. At last, one 
of them, speaking in behalf of the rest, besought of the Caliph that the 
old woman might be sent for, whose pot had been mended by Agib, 
and accordingly an officer was despatched to bring her to the court. 
As soon as she came, the Cadi interrogated her, by the command of 
the Caliph, as to her transaction with Agib ; whereupon she related the 
whole affair, and proved that he had undertaken, by express words, 
to put a new bottom to her pan. 

The Caliph was very much vexed at this turn of the case against 
Agib, whereas the complainants were altogether in exultation, and asked 
eagerly and at once of the old woman, whether her pan was not merely 
scrubbed white at the bottom, and unserviceable, like theirs. The 
old woman, however, declared that it was no such matter, but that her 
pan was quite watertight, and repaired with a new bottom in a work- 
manlike manner ; whereupon the vessel being examined, it was dis- 
covered that she had told the truth. 

The Caliph, who was overjoyed at this favourable result, now laughed 
again till he was ready to fall out of his seat. Whereas, the pan- 
bearers fell into a fresh fit of rage, shaking their clanking utensils first 
at the old woman, and then at Agib, and at last at each other, every 
one shifting the blame of the failure from himself to his neighbour, 
who had prevented the cause from being properly heard. In the 
meantime, all the braziers and metalworkers of the place, who had 
heard of the subject of the examination, thronged into the court, and 
began to treat with the enraged people who had been juggled for the 
repairs of their pans : and these men falling into dispute with each 
other, there arose a fresh uproar. The Cadi, therefore, would fain 
have had them all thrust out of the place, but the Caliph desired that 
the rioters might have their way for a little longer, not doubting that 
some fresh mirth would arise out of the squabble. Accordingly, before 
long, the complainants came forward with a fresh accusation against 
the artificers, that under pretence of examining the vessels, they had 
thrust fresh holes in them, and withal they flourished the damaged 
panbottoms once more in the eyes of the Commander of ih« 
FaithluL 



774 THE THREE BROTHERS. 

Little Agib, in the meantime, enjoved this iipronr in his sleeve, and 
cnsting a sly glance or two towards the seat of justice, he soon per- 
ceived that it was not more displeasing to the Caliph. The latter, 
after l.uighing a while longer, put on a grave look by force, and coin- 
mnnded Agib to rekte what passed with the people, at the delivery of 
their wares. 

" Sire," replied Agib, " as soon as I had got all the pans together, 
which were thus forced as it were upon me, I examined them as nar- 
rowly ns I could ; but not being abrazier, nor knowing anything what- 
ever of that trade, I could perceive only that they wanted a little 
scouring, which I performed by the help of my two brothers. This 
morning the peo'.le came again for their pots and pans, and seeing 
that they had onlv held up the bottoms towards me, m like manner I 
only held up the bottoms towards them ; wherewith they were so well 
contented, that each give me a small piece of money, without any de- 
mand on my part, and they went on their way." 

As soon as Agib had concluded these words, he was silent ; where- 
upon one of the braziers pushed his way through the crowd, and 
making his reverence before the Caliph, spoke as follows : — 

" Commander of the Faithful, what this young man has said is every 
word of it true. As for any sort of copper or brass work, he is quite 
ignorant of the craft, for the very morning before this, he brought to 
me a pan of his own to be repaired. By his desire, therefore, I put in 
a bran new bottom, for which he paid me very honestly, as well as 
handsomely, so that I wish I had many more such liberal customers. 
As for these foolish people that make such a clatter, they are not 
Worthy to be believed for an instant ; for I leave it to your Majesty to 
consider whether so many bottoms as they speak of could be put into 
their vessels by all the braziers in the place, in the course of a single 
night. The thing is impossible ; and besides, if it could be c'one,, 
there is no man alive that could do such a job conscientiously, 'inder 
ten times the price which they confess to have paid to him. 1 urn a 
judge, and ought to know." 

The Caliph was very much diverted with this speech of thr '<)r/i;:ier, 
which made all the disconcerted panbearers hang down their '.leads. 
He then turned round to the Cadi and asked what he thought of the 
case ; the latter havin;^' given his answer, the crier was comm.rided to 
procure silence in the court, and the Caliph stood up to gii'e judg- 
ment. 

"Your observation," said he. turning towards the Cadi, "is both 
leirned and just, I am of opinion, likewise, that the holding up of 
the bottoms of brazen pans is not amongst any of the known ft rms of 
agreement. Thus there was no legal bargain on either side,"— and at 
these words the disappointed people, raising up their hands lowards 
the Prophet in appeal against the injustice of the Caliph, ihe.-e arose 
a new flashing of brass and copper bottoms, and a fresh clatter of ail 
the pans. 

" Notwithstanding," continued the Caliph, "as there seems to havf; 
been some evasion of a secret understanding between the two parties, 
miy decree therefore is this, that the criminal shall receive two hundred 
strokes upon the soles of his feet ; " and herewith, the hands falling 



THE THREE BROTHERS. ri% 

down again with satisfaction, there ensued a fresh clanking chorus 

throughout the hall. 

" However," the Caliph went on thus, as soon as there was silence 
— " it is necessary tiat justice on both sides should be equal and com- 
plete ; wiierefore, as the complainants did but hold up their pans, and 
then reckon ih;it the order for the new bottoms was distinct, so it ba.dl 
be sufficient for the executioner to lift up his arms two hundred times, 
and the criminal shall be deemed to h.ive suffered as many stripes of 
the bastinado.' 

At this pleasant decision, there was a great shout of applause in the 
court; but the discomfited panbearers departed in great dudgeon, 
with more clangour tlian ever, ;ind almost in a temper to hang up 
tiieir pans, like the kettles of the Turkish janizaries, as the signals for 
a revolt. 

As for Agib, he suffered the penalty, according to his sentence ; 
but the Caliuh was so much delij,fhted with his wit and addres;;, tii.it 
before long he raised him to be one of his iVIinisters of State. Th? 
two elder ones, on the contrary, being very dull and slow, howbeit 
very proper men, rose no iiigher than to be soldiers of the Body 
Gu.;rd. Thus the expectation of Abendali was fulfilled ; the little Agib, 
thou:^h last in birth and least in stature, becoming the foremost ia 
{iortune and the highest in dignity of the Three Brothers 



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